


Ending the World

by musiclily88



Category: Little Mix (Band), One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF, The 1975 (Band), X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, BDSM, Biphobia, Biting, Breathplay, Choking, Coming Out, Date Rape, Drinking, Drug Dealing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Foursome, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Fourway, Homelessness, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Internalized Homophobia, It's very sexy, Lots of Sex, Lots of drugs okay guys, M/M, Mentions of violene, Multi, Mysterious blonde, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Sexual Assault, Perrie comes in later, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn, Porn With Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Seriously do not do this kind of breathplay it is fucking dangerous, Sexual Content, Slapping, This is gonna get dark, This is my new angst fic ps, Under-negotiated Kink, Zayn POV, Zayn gets kicked out and Harry finds him, Zayn takes up boxing, off-screen violence, what am I doing this sounds so cracky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:28:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn’s no fool. He knows what he looks like generally—smudgy lashes, soft lips, harsh cheekbones that belie his stupid laugh. He knows what he looks like now, cigarette wedged in his mouth like his nose isn’t bleeding, like his lip and knuckles aren’t split. He knows what it means when someone stares at him like this kid is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dropping, Popping, Topping

**Author's Note:**

> Angst and drug use and lots of fucking.

Zayn’s no fool. He knows what he looks like generally—smudgy lashes, soft lips, harsh cheekbones that belie his stupid laugh. He knows what he looks like now, cigarette wedged in his mouth like his nose isn’t bleeding, like his lip and knuckles aren’t split. He knows what it means when someone stares at him like this kid is.

This kid exited the bar not even thirty seconds ago, bumbling his way out the service door like a noisy calf. He has wide, bright eyes, green even in the dark alley, slender legs shoved tight into black jeans, the silkiest hair Zayn has ever seen. He has a purpling bruise on one cheek and a confused look on his face. Not concerned—confused. Intent.

He sighs. “Stay here.”

He’s _pretty._ But that’s what got Zayn here to begin with, really, so Zayn doesn’t react. He, this guy, goes through the service door and returns quickly with a sweating bottle of beer and a bar-rag. “For your nose.” 

He sets the rag in Zayn’s upturned palm, shooting him a bright-white-toothy smile. He’s pretty. Zayn hates it.

“And the beer?”

The guy shrugs. “Your knuckles. Or the look on your face.”

“Which is?” Zayn asks, sticking the slobby fabric underneath his still-bleeding nose. He’s aware of what he looks like, the cigarette still between his lips, the olive-drab rucksack sitting by his side on the wooden pallet behind the fucking _bar_ he’s outside of.

“Like you want to eat me alive.” He bites his lips over a smile.

Zayn sucks in a breath. “And?”

“And maybe I’ll let you.”

Zayn snorts, which makes a bit of blood slip out of his nose, because of course. “I’m Zayn, anyway.”

“Yeah, okay. Harry. I think I’ve seen you here before. Doing karaoke.”

“That sounds likely.”

“You’re good.”

“Am I?”

“When you’re not bleeding out a broken nose, yeah.”

“Hey. I’m good now. I’m fine, honest.”

“You’re sitting on a wooden thingy in a dirty alley, and you’re still actively bleeding.”

“It’s a pallet. Do you—do you work in the bar?” He removes the cigarette from his mouth and clenches it between two fingers.

“No. I just flirt there.”

“And in the alley,” Zayn concedes slowly.

“This is flirting?”

“It’s not?”

“I usually go from zero to hands in pants.”

“You do?” Zayn furrows his brow, genuinely startled, no longer trying to smolder his way into a free meal or a warm _anything._

“Wanna have at it?” Harry folds his hands behind his head like a pillow, leaning against the wall. “Say I trust you.”

“You’re a fool.” Zayn swipes easily at the bottom of his nose and takes a long, long drag of the beer, swallowing half of it easily.

“So are you.”

:::

Harry invites Zayn to stay at his for a night, at least a night, promising nothing sexual need happen, unless of course…all the rest. Zayn sighs and agrees, knowing he can’t spend a third night in the alley without proper shelter. He can’t.

He trails along behind Harry, who trips coltishly. Zayn is letting a clumsy man-child lead him to safety. His life is a shambles.

“So give me the sob story, yeah?” Harry requests casually as they exit the alley. “The blood.”

Zayn snorts, which makes his nose hurt. He winces. “It’s a bit ridiculous, actually.”

“I’ll tell you how I got this killer bruise. Tradesies?”

He heaves a sigh. “So I found this place that does—I guess you’d call it cagefighting.”

_“Cagefighting.”_

“And I lost.”

“You’re skinny as a coke fiend, of course you lost.”

“I’m wiry! A featherweight. Whatever. I wasn’t that outmatched.”

“Why the dangerous and possibly illegal hobby?”

“It’s definitely illegal.” Zayn doesn’t like talking and he doesn’t want to discuss his clearly inferior position in this conversation, but he forges again. He can’t not. “Um, well, I can’t very well spend another shitty night in an alley, can I?”

“Prize money?”

“Better than hooking or something. Not ever gonna try that.”

“You’d make a killing, with that face. But yeah, I don’t blame you. Um. How long have you been on the street?”

“Three days,” Zayn says with another sigh. “Not really acclimated yet.”

“Makes sense. Glad you agreed to come with me, then,” Harry agrees lightly, before snorting at the potential for double-entendre. “Coming.”

“If you brutally murder me, at least I’ll be warm for the night.” Zayn is unsure if he’s joking or not.

“I’m not going to brutally murder you.”

“You make a habit of taking home bleeding boys?”

“Nope. I do make a habit of yoga, and I definitely own too many scented candles. The only strays I’ve ever taken home have been my two cats, Gracie and Miles. They’re pretty ornery. I tripped over them today and face-planted into a doorframe. That’s the bruise. Nothing exciting or dangerous, unfortunately.” Harry’s voice drawls slowly, the conversation taking strange dips and turns. It should be maddening.

“Well we can’t all live on the edge the way I do.”

“Yeah, about—about that. Why aren’t you, like, in a real house or apartment or something? What happened?”

“Got kicked out. Apparently my bisexual lifestyle doesn’t jibe with conservative religious dogma. Never heard my dad say the word _faggot_ before, but he sounded like he had practice.”

“Shit. That’s terrible.”

“Pretty much.” Zayn’s throat burns with it all.

“And if I hadn’t found you? Then what?”

‘Try to hitchhike to Albany. My older sister’s in college there, she’d probably let me stay. Unless dad’s gotten to her, but she’s kind of, you know. Better than that.”

“Hitchhiking is dangerous.”

“So’s going home with pretty strangers.”

“So’s bare-knuckle boxing.”

“Fine.” Zayn bites at the inside of his cheek for a moment. “So what do you do, then? Since you don’t bartend?”

“I’m a dealer.”

Zayn snorts, turning to look at Harry straight-on. His face is serious, his bright eyes wide, so wide that his brows slip up underneath his bangs. He looks like maybe he expects Zayn to say something incredulous, so he doesn’t.

“So what do you say, Zayn? Wanna get fucked up?”

:::

If Zayn expects Harry to be a low-level pot dealer who basically only makes enough to keep himself in ratty t-shirts (and he definitely does expect that), he’s once again surprised. Granted he’s not cooking meth in his kitchen wearing only a pair of briefs, but the lines of coke he cuts with quick efficiency indicate experience and know-how. He slides a card from his wallet and gets to work, organizing neat lines on a small plate.

“So when you say I’m skinny as a coke fiend, you had empirical references then?” Zayn muses, trying to shove one hand into his pocket and failing.

“Sure. Bathroom’s down the hall, if you wanna clean up the nose. The bloodiness’ll likely make it absorb faster so be careful not to do too much right away, yeah?”

“Oh. Right.” Zayn nods slowly, putting a hand to the tip of his nose before heading the bathroom. He cleans his nostrils carefully with toilet paper, looking the mirror accusatorially. “Fuck,” he whispers to his reflection.

Without a second coherent thought, he leaves the bathroom, determined and with his mind set.

“You’re up, babe,” Harry says easily, handing Zayn a short straw and gesturing to the table carelessly. He leans back against the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other. “No rush, but the high only lasts so long, yeah?” he adds with a crooked grin, forcing one thumb against his nostril. “Eat up.”

“Right.” Zayn kneels beside the table and snorts up three-quarters of a line before stopping, huffing it up into his system carefully. He wipes his nose and sighs. “Pacing it.”

“Good idea. Couple friends coming over soon.”

Zayn’s eyes snap up to meet Harry’s, his face apprehensive. His throat burns, but his spine has gone cold. He likes it. “They gonna like me?”

“I like you. Think that’s enough, yeah.”

“You don’t know me.”

“And neither do they, yet. Come on, dude, let’s get fucked up.” He takes the straw back from Zayn and snorts two lines in quick succession, before grinning at the room, wide and large.

Zayn’s nose already hurts, stings a bit at the lingering trace of coke, his other bruises simply a reminder of his fucking miserable excuse for an existence. But Harry is pretty and lithe, and he snaps his hips as he stands up from the coffee table, shimmying slightly from side to side. Zayn thinks the only way to redemption might be through pain, through pain and fire, and the thought doesn’t totally scare him the way it might have last night.

“Hey, special guest,” Harry murmurs easily, settling onto the couch next to Zayn, splaying one large hand against his wrist. Christ. “Everyone will love you. I’m half hard just looking at your face, yeah? Stop with the bullshit.”

“Just half?” Zayn smirks and smolders. He knows what he looks like, after all.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Not everyone’s easy for it.”

“Think maybe you are though.”

“You’ve gotta stick around to find out.” Harry shrugs and moves entirely out of Zayn’s personal space, kneeling delicately in front of the coffee table to snort up another line.

Zayn’s mouth goes dry for a lot of reasons, certainly from the drugs running their way though his system and the fucking stupid-hot boy kneeling in his field of vision. It might also go dry due to the fact that he never predicted his day would go this way, not with his father kicking him out three days ago proclaiming him nothing but a cocksucker.

The knock at the door makes him and Harry share a private grin before the latter is swooping up to greet his guest. Zayn lurches forward to do a bump, forgetting the pain in his nose and eyes and soul. He runs the last bit of coke over his gums, wincing at his tingling split lip.

:::

Harry’s right, and Zayn thinks that will be annoying eventually. But they swerve and sway around one another like fucking magnets all night, aware of one another even rooms away. It’s maddening and it makes Zayn feel dizzy.

It’s not just the coke and the blood loss, he hopes.

So Harry’s right, and his friends _do_ like Zayn. They’re louder than Zayn’s used to, but he has sisters after all so he’s not as uncomfortable as he might be. Normally he hates loud, hates the screaming and the writhing when it doesn’t include him, but things right now are shiny-bright and distant. It’s just a small thing, just a small knot of people who have Zayn at odds for only one moment before Harry introduces him and banishes the awkwardness.

Louis is silly, climbing on the coffee table before anyone can utter two words at him, before anything, really. He fist-pumps and grinds the air to Ginuwine’s _Pony_ and he makes Zayn laugh so hard he can’t breathe right.

Zayn recognizes Niall from the gym he boxed at, receiving a tight hug and a congratulatory-slash-sympathetic _you did really well for a newbie._ Jesy rolls her eyes at this, poking Zayn in the collarbone and proclaiming him an _idiot._ She’s frighteningly pretty, high cheekbones and full lips, which she sees him staring at. 

“Hey, love, I’m not on the prowl tonight, yeah?” she murmurs into his ear after fifteen minutes, holding a beer in one hand, fiddling with her hair in the other. “I appreciate the attention though.”

“Nah, that’s fine. I didn’t mean to make you uncomf—”

“You didn’t. But shit’s complicated. So stick with your boy.” She gestures across the room as though Zayn forgot where Harry was, as if he couldn’t feel that he was eying their interactions like a jealous, menacing waif.

“You are lovely, though,” Zayn says with a slight huff of air. “Never pass up an opportunity to tell a lady she’s pretty. Rule number one from my dad.”

She arches a brow. “Close with your dad, then?”

Zayn snorts, wincing at the pain in his nose. “He’s the reason I’m camping out at Harry’s. Kicked me out when he saw me sucking dick.” Her eyes widen immediately, her mouth falling open. “I’m bi, he wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, me too, fuck, babe, that’s shitty, that’s insane. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

She purses her lips, considering his serious face. She learns forward, narrowing her eyes again. “Harry’ll take good care of you, though. He won’t let you starve.”

Zayn laughs. “Yeah yeah. Pretty words.”

“He’s good for a first-rate fuck up,” Jesy agrees, looking over his shoulder. “Hey, love, pardon, yeah?” She moves before he can respond, walking over to a blonde girl who just entered, pressing their chests and faces together with intense and implied intimacy.

Zayn looks away.

Someone named Nick enters after the nameless blonde, tall and sharp-boned and very friendly with Harry, all of a sudden. Zayn sticks by his side throughout their entire interaction, berating himself as he does so. Maybe he’ll blame it on the coke.

He has no idea what he’s doing, and yet he does. So he rolls with it slowly, placing a hand on Harry’s taut bicep or his lower back, leaning in to the touch until Harry catches his eye and grins like a wolf might, bright and sharp.

They head to the kitchen where Harry makes him a drink languidly, limbs loose.

“What do you like?”

“Anything but whiskey, please.”

He watches Harry sort him a vodka-soda, ducking ice cubes out of the freezer with practiced ease. He feels Harry watching him in return, on the edges, in moments that don’t sew together neatly. But then, they themselves don’t sew together neatly.

“Gonna just eat you alive,” Harry murmurs, shoving one hand into his pocket before pulling out a small baggie.

“Gonna let you.”

They fix up lines beside the small stove, giggling with one another and taking sips of their drinks.

:::

They fuck hard, Zayn lifting Harry up and pressing him against the wall _outside_ his bedroom, not even dignifying their lust enough to make it inside. Harry whines against Zayn’s neck, mutters, “Fuck, you’re stronger than you look.”

“I told you,” he growls in response, hips stuttering up against Harry’s pert ass, feeling like jackhammer, his heart beating like a jackrabbit’s. He’s mixing his metaphors a bit, but it’s hard not to with Harry clenching around him, the hot feel of breath on his neck. It’s all just pounding, his dick, his hips, his pulse, Harry’s face against his shoulder. It’s a lot. It’s everywhere.

They slam into one another and against one another and they come in near unison, Zayn growling and Harry panting, lost in the universe they created between them. Zayn sees stardust behind his closed eyelids, barely remembers not to drop Harry as they both come down a bit.

“Fuck,” Harry says, “babe, not sure my legs will hold me up right now, shit.”

“Not sure I can hold you up much longer,” Zayn whispers, carefully setting him down before they down collapse gracelessly to the floor. They end up draped over one another, jelly-limbed, as their pulses slow.

They let themselves get tacky as their sweat dries, as the salty small of come fills the hallway. “Fuck yeah,” Harry murmurs, slapping Zayn’s abs sharply.

“How fucking loaded are you?”

“I’m flying,” he replies like a sigh, swiping up his own come with one hand, shoving it into his own mouth like nothing.

All Zayn has time to think, as he watches Harry grope for his discarded jeans so he can fish out another baggie, is _baby, you are gonna be the death of me._

Because Harry is immediately on him, tonguing him a pill and licking at the cut on Zayn’s lip. He darts everywhere, pulling at Zayn’s hands and hair, nipping at his earlobe, pinching his ribs.

:::

Zayn leans out an open window while Harry sleeps across the room. The light is low and for the first time in months, in ever, Zayn doesn’t feel like life is too loud, that he wants to shove his head underwater and scream at strangers to _shut the fuck up._ For the first time in ages, he’s not panicking about absolutely everything, even he runs one finger over the split in his lip.

He feels split open and seen and weirdly taken care of in a way he never knew he longed for. And though he isn’t panicking, he’s definitely fucking terrified.

:::

Zayn wakes up slowly the next morning, hearing footsteps shuffling across the floor, and then quickly, when Harry sits down onto his chest. “Oof,” he complains lightly. “You were lighter last night.”

Something cold settles against his neck and Zayn startles away from it. “Morning, starshine,” Harry replies with a smile, shifting his body onto the empty side of the mattress.

“You are not pleasant to wake up to.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says with a bright laugh, handing Zayn a beer. “Take the edge off.”

It’s an echo of the night before, sort of, but Zayn puts the cold bottle to his nose, which still hurts and which he definitely should not have snorted coke up the night before. But then his gaze drops to Harry’s hips, the slim cut of the V-line there, the weird tattoos he hasn’t asked about yet. Because Harry’s not wearing anything at all.

Zayn lets himself live inside this moment and inside this bottle, inside the slight chill against his bruised skin. Things are quieter with the tang of beer in his mouth, the memory of coke faded in his system, Harry so pretty and bright beside him, all golden skin and dim sunshine.

And Zayn’s a little too warm even with the beer pressed against his battered face, a little warm, but he rolls with it.

“Up and at em, I have a plan.”

“I don’t do mornings.”

“You’re doing this one.” He slaps Zayn’s abdomen, making Zayn nearly spill the beer at his lips. “It’s a reward for not murdering you in your sleep.”

“That’s literally just common human decency, Harry.”

Harry rolls his eyes, stealing the beer from Zayn’s hand. He snorts. “Are you wearing my boxers?”


	2. One for the Road and One For My Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You gonna give me a show?” Zayn suggests, biting the inside of his cheek, looking at Harry from beneath his eyelashes.
> 
> He knows what he looks like.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: There was glitch in the html that cut out, like, three paragraphs towards the end. I fixed it now, though, if you wanna re-read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR DANGEROUS BREATHPLAY  
> Do not do breathplay, and ESPECIALLY do not do breathplay like this.  
> There are technically ways to do breathplay sort of safely but THIS SHIT AIN'T IT so please don't do it.  
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: There was glitch in the html that cut out, like, three paragraphs towards the end. I fixed it now, though, if you wanna re-read it.

Zayn thinks he wants to ride this feeling until he dies, this floaty way of being high off the surface of the earth, even when he’s in the subway next to Harry, who won’t fucking sit still. Harry keeps twitching, rolling his hips forward, fidgeting with his hair, bouncing his leg.

“Hey, you’re harshing this, bruh,” Zayn mutters, poking Harry’s knee.

Harry sighs and surges to his feet, hands tight on the pole as if supporting himself.

“You gonna give me a show?” Zayn suggests, biting the inside of his cheek, looking at Harry from beneath his eyelashes.

He knows what he looks like.

And damn him if Harry doesn’t buck his hips, grinding against the pole with a filthy smile teasing at his lips, biting at his pinking bottom lip like no one but Zayn can see him. Zayn’s throat burns.

He can see the slight but growing bulge of Harry’s cock in his jeans, pressed against the zipper, flipped up as though he expected this to happen. The thought makes Zayn smirk. Slowly, his sense of power seeps back into him, the idea that he can do things, impact the world around him, get what he needs. He can take things. He can make things happen.

He feels predatory but then Harry looks like he wants to be eaten, biting his lip harder, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

It’s _indecent._

Zayn watches, rapt, as Harry spins easily around the pole, affecting a grace he only had when they were fucking the night before. He drops his ass so it nearly touches the back of his ankles, knees bent so his thighs strain against his jeans.

Zayn chuckles throatily, feeling like a snake, like a predator. He tips his head back and fucking laughs, earning a scandalized glare from one gray-haired woman. But Harry has the attention of them all.

They stumble out of the subway after nearly missing their stop, Zayn’s eyes hooded and Harry’s shut with intent. Zayn barely knows what part of the city they’re in anymore, and of course he doesn’t care, gives so few shits it’s terrifying.

He follows Harry up the stairs to the open air, noting the way his black t-shirt doesn’t cover much of anything: not his tattoos, and especially not the bruises Zayn left on his arms the night before.

As they breach the sidewalk, Harry rounds on him, grappling for a moment at his ass, kneading the flesh roughly. He darts forward to growl, “Think I’m gonna fuck you later, yeah? See if you’ll ride me so hard your bony knees leave bruises on my sides from where you’re gripping me.”

“Fuck.” Zayn stops dead in his tracks, mindless of the people streaming out of the stairwell behind him. He’s officially become the pedestrian he hates, and he doesn’t fucking care.

“Cool, keep going. Places to be.” Harry sets off decisively, leaving Zayn to trail in his wake. “Things worth seeing!” he calls over his shoulder.

Zayn feels sick with anticipation and terror and something anticipatory, something he can’t name.

He chases it.

He follows Harry in a rush, like he world is ending and they’re running from it.

But maybe he’s running towards it, the idea filling him with a thrumming thrill. He chases it.

“So what are your thoughts on asbestos?” Harry calls loftily, arms swinging at his side as he walks.

“It’s a blight on humanity, probably. I dunno. Is that immediately relevant?”

“Could be.” He slows, grabbing Zayn by the hand to drag him along. “So I found this place, right, heard about it online after I saw some really cool photos, like ridiculous as shit. Not filtered, even, just this awesome sepia tone naturally, you know?”

“God, I should have known you’d be into like indie instagram accounts and shit.”

“Well lucky for you I do, because we’re going on an adventure. Buckle up.”

Zayn has an inkling of what they might be up to, and his suspicions are confirmed about five minutes of walking. They sidle down a side alley, past dumpsters and over broken glass, all things Zayn has grown accustomed to lately. They head around the back of an imposing building, looming dark and wide above the surrounding structures. It looks like an old school or maybe an old hospital, something with a clinical air, but also a sense of—history, maybe. It’s all dark brick and crumbling doorframes, paint chalky beneath his fingertips.

“We’re going in, right? Right?”

“Yeah, duh. Course we are. Where’s your indie bullshit now?”

“Right beside me. Always got indie bullshit if you’re around,” Zayn crows with a stupid laugh, the laugh he saves for when he’s genuinely pleased with something. He knows it makes his face crinkle up, his sisters always give him shit for it, but he thinks secretly it might be endearing.

“Oh, cop that attitude all you want, but I know the smolder’s all for show.”

“What smolder?” he asks in response, all innocence and light, reaching out to take Harry’s hand. “So are we smashing our way in, or do you pick locks?”

“I do, actually, but we don’t need to.” He gestures with his chin to a propped-open service door, a brick nestled carefully against the jamb. He pulls his phone from the back pocket of his skinny jeans, thumbing open a flashlight app.

“Shall we?”

They step inside gingerly, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. Harry casts the flashlight around on the dirty floor. They kick up dust and other random shit, papers and a gross-looking shoe and something that might have been a teddy bear.

A shiver rolls through Zayn’s body as he steps on a rotting floorboard, the wood soft beneath his foot. Dust motes shine in the beam of Harry’s flashlight, drawing Zayn’s eye as he looks around.

“What was this place?”

“School, like super old. Big when this was still an Irish-Catholic neighborhood.” Zayn snorts, loosening his grip so he can pivot, taking in the room at large. Harry tracks his movements, jaw tight. Zayn just smiles, watching Harry watch him. “What? You picturing nuns giving the priests head, taking it hard when they’re meant to be confessing their sins?”

“Picturing what you’d look like down on your knees, more like, all pious and bright-eyed,” Zayn counters, snaking a hand up to cup the back of Harry’s neck, yanking on his hair. Harry hisses, eyes falling shut. “What are you? Gay, pan, bi, queer? Or just an alien sent specifically to destroy me?”

Harry snorts, lashes fluttering up as he opens his eyes. “Just a slut, I guess. Really.”

“Really.”

“Still not getting on my knees in this mess, though. Not even for you.”

“You say that now.” Zayn laughs, feeling bright, a hum at the back of his throat.

Harry rolls his eyes, shrugging off his backpack as he unzips it. He pulls out a frankly ridiculous-looking camera, huge with a heavy-duty lens. Without ceremony, he turns it on and takes a shot of Zayn, not really aiming,

Zayn spins in slow circles, kicking at loose bricks and split floorboards, periodically squinting against the flash Harry has aimed his way. “Think this place is haunted?” he asks in low tones as he hears the shutter click again.

“Hell yeah. Full of the angry souls of eight-year-olds whose knuckles have been rapped one too many times with a ruler.”

“Why’d it get shut down?”

“The usual, sex abuse scandal.” He says it casually, like he’s heard every story in the world, like he has the world’s address in his little black book and can’t be bothered to work up indignation. Zayn doesn’t know what to make of it. “Gross priests and little boys.”

“Oh.” Another flash, another quiet shutter click. A shudder runs through Zayn’s shoulders again, and he recalls the old superstition his grandmother was always joking about. “Someone just walked over my grave, I think.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”

“The shivers, you know? The old wives’ tale,” Zayn trails off, casting his gaze up to the ceiling, squinting a bit through the darkness.

“Thought that was just the result of palpable sexual tension.”

“Or asbestos,” he counters.

“I don’t think there’s actually asbestos here. It’s abandoned, not condemned.” Harry loops the camera strap around his neck and rummages through his bag again. “But just in case.”

He offers Zayn a black bandana, covering his own nose and mouth with a red one. The criminal effect isn’t lost on him, as they creep through the grime of a building they only technically didn’t break into before entering illegally.

“Up, up, up,” he hears Harry murmur, the sound muffled by the cloth around his face. They edge toward a dark staircase, Harry casting the light up it cautiously. “Think it’s sturdy enough to support us?”

“Not really an engineer,” Zayn counters, walking up the steps currently illuminated by Harry’s phone.

“What are you then?”

“Technically homeless and dressed like a fucking outlaw.”

“It doesn’t really get old. Least it hasn’t for me.”

“What doesn’t?” His throat hurts.

“Doing stupid shit for no reason at all, other than I can.”

Zayn snorts. “Is that why you did me?”

“As I recall, you did me. But no, not really. Although it’ll probably turn out that was the stupidest thing I ever could’ve done. You’ve got a mind to devastate me, haven’t you?”

“Not on purpose.”

“That old refrain.”

“Face like yours, life like yours, I bet you’ve done some ruining of your own.”

“Never on purpose. Come on, nearly there.” Harry urges him forward with a gentle hand to one hip, fingers kneading in only slightly. They enter a long corridor, the floor littered with broken desks and knocked-over chairs. Harry nearly trips over a metal pencil sharpener no longer mounted to the wall, laughing as Zayn steadies him. “This way.”

They thread their way through the detritus of misspent education until Harry bumps open an office door with one foot, shining the flashlight inside. He hums to himself and walks into it, trying to balance his ridiculous camera in only one hand.

Zayn wordlessly takes the phone from him, moving it so he can see what Harry’s so pleased about. And, _fuck._

“Is that blood?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to find out.”

Littered across all four walls are damning words, slurs, symbols, warnings about hell and the devil’s uprising. Zayn’s breath goes shallow as he moves forward, within arm’s reach of one wall.

“It looks like blood.” And it does—it’s dark and flaking off in spots, unevenly distributed and a mottled brown-ish red.

“It could be paint.”

“Wishes aren’t horses, dude.”

“That was a weird syllogism. Wait, is that the opposite of a syllogism? And anti-syllogism?” He brings the camera up and takes a long series of photos, cataloging every wall and every epithet.

“What’s blood is blood.”

Harry snorts. “Pretending to be profound and actually being profound are two wildly different things, you know. Nice tautology, though.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying half the time.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. Here.” Harry jams one of his giant hands back into his backpack, pulling out a can of spraypaint, giving it a clicking shake. “Compare and contrast?”

Zayn uncaps it and angles the nozzle, spraying an alien, a spider, and a massive wang—all bright red. “It’s totally blood. Might be animal though, you think?”

“Like a sacrificial lamb or something?”

“God this is sick,” Zayn mutters, crouching down for a moment. He sprays a quick starburst shape onto the top of his shoe before capping the can again, sticking it into Harry’s bag.

“Yeah?”

“Like, fucking A. It’s twisted, isn’t it?” He shivers again, eyeing the foul words and stuck on the fact that something, someone _died_ for them to exist. His breath is still lodged somewhere in his trachea. “Spooky shit.”

“Aptly put.” Harry spins quickly, taking a photo of Zayn in the process. “I love this shit.” He ambles out of the room, not really paying attention to where he places his feet. Zayn wants to warn him off, to tell him to be careful, but something, everything, stops him. He hates the second-guessing his mind abruptly forces on him, hates feeling awkward and stilted and _off._

Somewhere around thirteen, he learned to quiet the gaping uncertainty with dainty joints and shitty vodka, the latter either stolen or illegally purchased by his cousin with a passable fake. The voice never goes away but it quiets a bit, goes from boom-booming to a mutter at the back of his head.

He fishes his cigarettes from his back pocket and gets one out, just to hold onto.

“Hey.” Harry rounds on him moments later, brow furrowed over his bandana. “Stop.” He moves into Zayn’s airspace, thumbing along his temple. “Get out of your head, you’re tripping yourself up.”

Zayn stiffens immediately, spine going cold, before he melts into the touch a bit. “Oh.”

Harry runs his fingers along Zayn’s cheekbone, his nose, his eyelashes. “You’re all right. You’re fine.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, yeah? You wanna steal something, maybe?”

“Steal from an abandoned school, where nothing is for sale?”

“Stop thinking. Just take.” Harry smirks. “S’what I do. Collect pretty things, interesting things.”

 _Like me, like collecting me,_ Zayn muses, _I’m a pretty thing._ Inside he seizes up again but externally he smiles.

Harry sweeps his own hair up quickly, the camera strap loose around his neck. He pulls his curls into a bun, emphasizing the sloping angles of his face, his cheekbones sharp above the bandana.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

“So are you. And find something pretty of your own, please,” Harry requests, stooping down to pick up a—ratty shoelace. Lovely.

“You’re disgusting, you know.”

“Love the filth.”

“You do?”

“I love a lot of things. Now come on, find something cool.” Harry tosses the frankly disgusting shoelace at Zayn, who ducks it. They move into what used to be a classroom, Zayn thinks, with more desks tipped sideways and nothing in order.

Zayn nods slowly, working his way across the room. He leans against the somehow-intact blackboard, testing its mettle. He smiles beneath his bandana.

Picking up a chair, he slams in into the blackboard, watching it crack satisfyingly. He drops the chair with a sigh, digging his nails into the crack he made in the board. He pulls a chunk out and wipes off the dust and chalk.

“Fucking A,” Harry says, laughing. “That’s the spirit.”

“I wanted it.” He puts it in the back pocket of his jeans.

“I can tell. What should I want?”

“Dunno, a chair. A desk.”

“Fuck that.” Harry stalks over to the wall and yanks down a crucifix, shoving it into his backpack. “More fun.”

“Is that sacrilegious?”

“Are you Catholic?”

“Nope. I follow, you know, the teachings of Islam. Sometimes, mostly. Parts of it.”

“Then don’t worry about this!”

Zayn laughs. “I wasn’t worried, Christ, I was just making an observation.”

“I’m not Catholic. I just like shit.”

Zayn narrows his gaze for a moment before surging forward, slamming Harry against the nearest wall, shoving their bodies flush together. He does it without thinking, without half a second’s consideration, without anything. He pulls his bandana up and plants his lips on Harry’s exposed neck, sucking down like he might die without it.

Harry moans.

He tips his head back hard, hitting the wall probably painfully, and he pries his bandana off quickly, shoving it into his pocket. “Fuck, yeah, fuck,” he mutters, shoving Zayn back. They stare at one another for half a moment before launching in.

Harry’s kiss is bruising against Zayn’s lips, their teeth out and violent, their lips rough and cruel. Zayn adores it.

He shoves his hands under Harry’s shirt, seeking warmth and validation. They press against one another hard, like they’re the last people who matter. And maybe they are. Probably, they are.

Zayn’s hard and he doesn’t care, all he cares about is biting down on Harry’s lips and touching his warm, pliant skin.

:::

“That was really gay, for being, like in the house of God.”

“It’s an abandoned school, H, not the Vatican.”

“H.” Harry giggles, stopping in front of his apartment door.

“Don’t mock, it’s not couth to tease. Ruins the mood. See if I’ll bruise your skinny little hips now.”

Harry snorts as he turns to unlock the door, keys jangling. “Liar. I can tell you like being teased.”

Zayn licks his bottom lip once, considering. “Not so much teasing,” he begins, trailing off slowly. “I’m a bit more out-and-out, really.”

“Out. Out-and-out?” He stills just inside the doorway, keys loose in his hand. His limbs are loose and easy, his face unreadable.

“I like pain, actually.” Zayn raises his bruised hand, flicking at his split lip languidly.

“Gathered that a little bit. Yeah.” Harry bites his lip, sucking it into his mouth entirely.

“Yeah? Think you can hurt me?”

“Might as well. Nothing ventured.” Harry shunts the door shut, crowding toward Zayn so quickly both their breathing goes—ragged, ragged is the only word for it. Harry has a glint in his eye that Zayn’s never seen, not that he knows him that ungodly well, not that he’s even known him a week.

Without a word, he slams Zayn into the wall, grinds their hips together so hard Zayn thinks he might drop dead. He stays upright, pinned to the plaster. He watches Harry plant his rough hands forward, watches with a distant fascination. And then Harry shoves Zayn’s shoulders even harder against the wall.

He unbuttons Zayn’s jeans with one hand, attaching his lips and teeth to Zayn’s neck. They surge together in a harsh collision, rutting against one another. Harry moves them onto a flat surface—probably his bed, probably through his open bedroom door, Zayn has no idea at the moment, otherwise occupied as ever—and they yank on each other’s clothes headily.

Naked, they writhe for a moment until Harry pins Zayn to the mattress, caging him in with his limbs. “You still up for riding me?”

“Anything, actually,” he murmurs, and he realizes it’s somehow true. Harry slams their bodies together, forcing breath out into the room at large. They grind momentarily, skin against skin, until Zayn gets impatient. “C’mon c’mon, hurt me.”

“Turnabout’s fair,” Harry says, flipping Zayn to sit neatly on his hips. “Open yourself up?” he asks, gesturing to the easily-reachable side table, covered in empty cups and condom packets, along with a few bottles of lube, most of which are partly empty.

Zayn snags a bottle and snicks it open, letting Harry hold it and pour some onto his waiting fingers. Zayn reaches behind himself without preamble or tease, coating his rim before easing the tip of one finger inside. 

He works himself open carelessly, legs tight around Harry’s hips, and—Harry’s just _watching_ him, eyes darker than normal, like Zayn would know from normal. “Condom,” he gasps, two fingers deep and working on a third. “Soon.”

“All right,” Harry agrees casually, like they aren’t both hard and pressed to one another, skin forever, like Zayn doesn’t feel like dying.

Harry throws an arm sideways to get a condom, ripping the package open carefully before slipping it on. He slicks himself up with his eyes on Zayn.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, snaking one hand up to cup Zayn’s jaw.

“Ready,” Zayn says in lieu of responding, in lieu of emotionality, compassion, or reciprocation. “Come on, please.”

“Like it when you beg.”

“You’ve never heard me beg.”

“Exactly. Your com-composure never falters,” he stutters, moving his hips upward to meet Zayn more fully, aligning their bodies.

“That’s n-not the way to get me to beg, pup.”

With a small smirk, Harry slams his hips up, shocking the breath out of Zayn, forcing his way inside him without preamble.

“Fuck,” Zayn growls, nearly toppling forward, his tense thigh muscles being the only things keeping him upright. “Fuck fucking hell.” He plants his hands on Harry’s torso as his eyes fall shut, as he sees nothing but darkness and stars.

Harry tips his head forward and bites down, hard, on the only available skin he can find: Zayn’s wrist. It hurts, but it makes pleasure spark through him all the same. Harry backs off, keeping their bodies flush, his cock still buried deep inside Zayn. “You planning on moving any time soon?” he asks with a put-upon casual air. His voice quavers.

Zayn eases himself upright slowly, moving his hips off of Harry. He sets a grinding pace, swiveling his hips as he seats and unseats himself in Harry’s lap. Their breathing is still ragged, and Zayn can’t see straight.

They fuck roughly until they’re sweat-soaked and breathless. Harry moves his hands to Zayn’s biceps, pressing in hard with his fingers like he wants to leave bruises. “Harder,” Zayn demands in a gravelly voice, a voice harsh from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.

“I don’t have enough leverage,” Harry says quietly, digging his nails in to Zayn’s flesh despite his statement. “Need to flip.”

They tumble around so that Zayn’s trapped beneath him, against the mattress, giving Harry ample space to lurch forward and bite him hard on the neck. Their pace picks up again, Harry fucking into him harshly like he maybe can’t control his rhythm.

He bites and sucks at every bit of skin he can find, moving from Zayn’s neck to his chest to his ear to his shoulder. Zayn keens, mouth falling open and his head tipping back. “More,” he mutters, scrabbling lightly for Harry’s hands. He clasps them tightly and yanks them, placing them carefully around his own neck.

“What?” Harry’s movements still, his dick somehow still buried deep inside Zayn. “What do you want me to do?” His eyes look feral and dangerous, even with his careful tone. His lips are bright pink, his cheeks dappled bright.

“Choke me.”

“Choke you?”

“Choke me. Like you actually mean it.”

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” Harry mutters, determination coloring his face as he levers his weight forward onto his taut arms. He sets back into his bruising pace, ramming himself deep into Zayn’s body, hands latched around his throat.

Zayn’s breath goes increasingly ragged, of course it does, someone’s fucking choking him, but all he wants is _more more more._ He must say as much because Harry gives him a wild, incredulous look, bearing down just a bit more with his large, strong hands. 

He can’t see stars anymore, just sees the pink-tinged, manic face looming above him, sweat collecting along Harry’s brow. “More,” he demands again, causing Harry to once again still his movements. 

“More?”

Zayn nods, and Harry removes his hands from him entirely. He pulls out, leaving Zayn confused, until Harry places his calloused hands along Zayns hips, flipping him chest-first onto the mattress. He shoves back inside him gracelessly, making Zayn pitch forward so his forehead hits the bed. Harry yanks him up by the hair, Harry’s chest nearly flush with his back. He maneuvers one arm around Zayn’s neck and puts him in a chokehold, his grasp locked tight and sure.

Zayn moans, the vibrations clearly traveling up Harry’s arm, making Harry bear down even more. Their bodies are pressed together almost too closely, and Zayn is having a hard time breathing.

They fuck mercilessly until Zayn loses track of time, his breath going too shallow. He closes his eyes again, forgets to even take himself in hand. Little electric bursts prickle at the edges of his vision and he comes untouched. He see stars, endless cascades of them, and then he sees nothing at all.

It feels like the world is ending.

:::

He comes to slowly, with Harry hovering over him as he cracks open an eye. He’s on his back again, Harry straddling his hips and slapping him lightly in the face. “Zayn, what the fuck,” Harry growls, sitting back on his haunches, shooting him a murderous look.

Zayn just laughs, the sound jagged. His throat is sore.

“Jesus, did that make you _come?”_ He sounds manic, incredulous with concern and maybe confusion. Zayn’s lost the thread of what Harry actually thinks.

“Yep.” Harry sighs, leaning even further backward so that Zayn can see he’s still at least half-hard. Zayn sits up “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

Zayn pulls his legs out from beneath Harry’s pliant body, opening them, inviting Harry back in. Harry tips forward as Zayn guides him with one hand, moving Harry back inside him. Zayn latches on to the sweat-slick skin of Harry’s shoulder, biting down with his teeth and pursing his lips to suction forcefully. He feels blood vessels burst beneath the skin, hears Harry groan quietly as his hips stutter to life, pumping in and out of Zayn slowly.

Zayn wraps his hands tightly around Harry’s hips, not to still him, but to anchor himself against something warm and real. He continues to bite into Harry’s shoulder, licking and sucking, trying desperately to leave a mark.

He feels more blood vessels pop as Harry’s hips pick up speed, snapping back and forth with fevered intent. Zayn pops his lips off with a smack, loosening his grip on Harry’s hips. He pulls his hand back and slaps Harry’s pert ass twice, quickly, and that’s what seems to do him in.

He comes for fucking ages, grinding out a groan so loud it shocks Zayn, shocks out a third slap from his quivering hand. He and Harry rock into one another for a few more moments until Harry collapses forward onto Zayn’s chest, huffing loudly. 

“Holy shit, you’re liable to kill me.” Harry’s voice is deeper somehow, if it’s possible, his breath still harsh.

“You say that like it’s a premeditated plan or something.”

“More like a happy accident.” Harry hums quietly, a smile teasing at his lips.

They lie together until Harry falls into a doze, until Zayn stumbles towards his pants to rummage for his cigarettes and lighter. He leaves the room quietly, moving to start the shower. He smokes and stands in front of the bathroom mirror while the water heats up, staring at his split lip and the dull ring of bruises around his neck, newly forming. His nostrils flare, vision swimming again.

He steps under the water, ducking to wet his hair. He keeps his head ducked the entire time he showers, and he only shoves his balled-up fist into his mouth once, just once, to drown out the sound of his own shuddering coughs and sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.  
> I'm sorry.  
> It's only going to get, like, way weirder.
> 
> Kudos, comments, critiques, anything that involves human contact is great by me.
> 
> Tumblr: musiclily
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: There was glitch in the html that cut out, like, three paragraphs towards the end. I fixed it now, though, if you wanna re-read it.


	3. Good and Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you do something for me though?”
> 
> “Okay.”
> 
> “Call someone. Like call your mom or your sister, someone needs to know you’re alive and generally—all right. Well, physically.”
> 
> Zayn heaves a sigh and tries to distance himself from the hot flush of Harry’s bare skin, tries to pull his face away from the offending comfort. But Harry clutches at him tightly, reeling him back.
> 
> “Not a request, Z,” Harry continues in a whisper, lips close to Zayn’s ear.
> 
> :::
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE about Chapter Two: There was glitch in the html that cut out, like, three paragraphs towards the end. I fixed it now, though, if you wanna re-read it. It will help this chapter make more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI LOVES!  
> I'M SORRY!  
> xx

Zayn stumbles back to Harry’s room, tumbling into bed next to his dozing figure. After a moment of hesitation, he snuggles close and sets his chin against Harry’s sloped shoulder. Harry hums a bit, ruffling Zayn’s wet hair after cracking open one eye. “You fucking scared me, you asshole.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, man, I’m fine. I got your towel wet though.”

“I have more.”

Zayn presses in further, sinking a kiss onto Harry’s jaw. “Okay.”

“Listen, I’ve gotta do a drop-off in a bit.”

“Oh, fuck, yeah, I’ll get out of the way, that’s—”

Harry interrupts him. “Shut the fuck up, Z. I can’t take you with me, but you can stay here. I mean I want you to stay here, if you want to stay here,” he rushes, scrabbling to wrap one large hand around Zayn’s wrist. “Seriously.”

“Okay.”

“Can you do something for me though?”

“Okay.”

“Call someone. Like call your mom or your sister, someone needs to know you’re alive and generally—all right. Well, physically.”

Zayn heaves a sigh and tries to distance himself from the hot flush of Harry’s bare skin, tries to pull his face away from the offending comfort. But Harry clutches at him tightly, reeling him back.

“Not a request, Z,” Harry continues in a whisper, lips close to Zayn’s ear.

Zayn wriggles, knocking his bones against Harry’s compliant body, making him laugh. “Why.”

“You know why. It’s only fair.”

“Don’t tell me from fair, you shoved a red bandana in your pocket like it was nothing.”

He feels Harry smile slightly, his lips twitching against his skin. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“We both know what it means,” Zayn says slowly, closing his eyes.

“And what does it mean.”

“Fisting.”

“Oh? Is that something you’re into?”

“Haven’t done it.”

“Neither have I. But we’re only so old, aren’t we. We’ve only lived so much.”

Zayn sighs. “Just go to work, H. We’ll talk about fisting, like, never.”

Harry rolls his eyes, gently squeezing Zayn’s wrist. “Black means BDSM, you know.”

“Fucking counted on it.”

:::

Harry gets ready in a flurry, all tight jeans and half-open button-up and heady cologne. Zayn tries not to smile as he watches Harry dress, and he actively frowns as he watches Harry pack up bags of powder and rock.

“You’re careful?” he asks quietly, watching Harry move product into the deep pockets of a jacket.

“I’m careful.”

Zayn stalks over to Harry, reaching into his jeans pocket to take out his phone. “Put in your password,” he demands. After Harry complies, Zayn enters in his own number, even as he remembers his own phone is cracked and dented. Maybe it won’t matter. “Let me know if you need me.”

“I existed before you, dickhead. But okay.” Harry settles down onto the sofa carefully, setting out four lines on a plate set onto the coffee table.

“How long have you been doing this?”

He shrugs. “Couple years. Sorta halfheartedly going to school for art too, but I get restless. Selling keeps me sane.”

“Restless?”

“School’s, like. So structured. Just need something else.”

“Oh.” Maybe Zayn understands. “What kind of art, like? Photography?”

“Mostly. Yeah.”

“I, like. Do some drawing. Sometimes. And painting. Graffiti?”

“Yeah? Maybe you’ll have to shadow me to class sometime.” He leans forward, straw in one hand, to snort a line easy as anything. “Be my new muse,” he adds, scrubbing at his nostril. He hands Zayn the straw and moves languidly away from the table.

Zayn snorts a line quickly, breathing in as carefully as he can. Harry ducks down to kiss his forehead, mussing at his hair in a weirdly motherly fashion. “Call your family. Not a request.”

“Or you’ll what?”

“Punish you, of course.”

“And if I like it?”

“You won’t.”

:::

Before calling his family, Zayn calls Danny. Partly he does this because he knows Ant’s in prison for at least another month, knows his habit of hotwiring cars has finally caught up to him, and also because Danny tends to be more supportive. Generally. Mostly.

They talk and talk and Danny listens and calls Zayn a loveable dumbass. And maybe that’s okay.

“You going home anytime soon?” he asks, voice light like maybe he doesn’t care about the real answer. Zayn can parse it easily enough.

“No. I’m not.”

“Yeah, I. Uh. I didn’t think so.”

“Can—will you look after the girls for me? Please? Saf’s, like, she’s just not going to be okay.”

“So fucking call _her._ Not me.”

“I’m not allowed to talk to you?”

“You’re allowed plenty, but fucking call her too, dick.”

“I don’t know that I can.”

“What about Trish?”

“Reckon she hates me, actually.”

“Saw her at the grocery yesterday. She—look, I know she’s your mom or whatever but she looked like shit. Okay?”

“She hasn’t called me, either.”

“You’re the one who left.”

“And she’s the fucking parent.”

“That’s true,” Danny says slowly.

“She let him throw me out, I’m hardly responsible for this shit, am I?”

Danny laughs bitterly. “What the fuck are you doing, though, man? You’re not living with me, Ant’s locked up and mom hates you anyway, and like. Where else is there?”

“I’m fine. Staying with a friend.”

“Be fucking honest with me right now.”

“I am!”

“Are you or are you not a gigolo?”

“Fuck no.”

“You’re not selling your ass for cash?”

“No!”

“Or like sucking dick for money.”

“No.”

“Offering to bone retirees for their pension?”

“Stop it.”

“He didn’t—hurt you, or anything? Your dad. You’re okay?”

“I told you. I’m fine.”

Danny sighs loudly. “Did you just call me so you could act like a defensive asshole?”

“I called you because you’re my best friend!”

“You won’t tell me where you are, what you’re doing, or literally anything except that you’re alive.”

“I just—” Zayn begins, realizing Danny’s right. “I’m fine, staying with Harry, wanted to talk to you because you’re my best friend.”

“Right, Harry,” he responds in a knowing manner. “I’ll check in on everything, especially the girls, of course I will, but I still think you need to call Trish.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Um. How are you?”

“Fine. Classes are pretty good, things are solid with Mia. Bringing her around to dinner sometime soon so she can get scared off by my family’s shitty four-story walk-up and know we’ll have to live off her family’s money, rather than mine.”

Zayn snorts. “That’s great, man.”

“Yeah. Thinking of pledging Sigma Chi, but if I do that I might not have time to double-major. Sociology’s kind of intense, dunno if I want to add art history into it.”

“Oh.” Zayn squints, nodding. Fucking Columbia. His throat hurts. “You’re the smartest bastard I’ve ever met, though, so if anyone could do it, you could. Didn’t know you were into the frat thing.” 

“I dunno. Maybe I could be.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I dunno, it looks good. Connections and whatever. Camaraderie. Beer pong.”

“That screams Danny. Yes.” Zayn clenches his jaw painfully.

“Oh look I’m needed somewhere else, bye, Z, call your mother or I’ll ping your phone and come kick your ass.”

“You won’t—” Zayn begins, but Danny’s already hung up.

Zayn sits down heavily on the couch, leaning forward to suck up the last two lines in quick succession, listening to his heart beat quick and fast. He’s towing at dangerous territory, and he doesn’t fucking care.

Nose still stinging, he pulls up his mother’s number in his phone and stares at it, initially intent on texting her rather than calling. He looks at his jittery hand and sets his jaw, clenching it slightly. He calls his mother before he can talk himself out of it, his hand moving faster than his brain can process. He maybe blames the drugs but also misplaced guilt. And maybe shame.

Shame sounds right. It coats him like a stifling blanket, a restrictive second skin, and he can sometimes feel it burrowing down into him, moving through his pores. It’s a gross mental image, to be sure, but shame latches onto him like a tick with a taste for blood. He’s sick of it, and he’s so fucking tired.

“Sweetheart, oh my god, where are you? Are you safe? _Where are you?”_ she blurts out without warning. Zayn winces.

“I’m fine, I’m safe. I’m at a friend’s. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not, jaan, you’re not here with us.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What? I d—”

“He used to call me that.”

“Zayn.”

“He kicked me out and you don’t get to excuse that. Not now.”

“I—”

“Not when all I got was radio silence.”

“I was afraid to call you, j—sweetie.” And Zayn thinks she sounds genuinely tentative, lately he doesn’t know if she’s guilty or maybe just sad.

“Well, I’m fine. I wanted to tell you that, and to ask about the girls. See how they’re doing.”

“You wh—they’re good,” she stutters out after a moment, “they’re fine, I dunno if you’ve talked to Doni lately, she’s moving off campus at the end of the year, Safaa’s got it in her head she’s gonna be head cheerleader by next semester. We’ll see. Waliyaah’s good too, just had parent-teacher conferences, she’s pulling straight As.”

“Damn, ma, that’s great.” He means it. He’s sure he means it.

“And your dad’s—”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Oh, okay,” she rushes out, as if to placate him. He needs placating, so he lets it slide. Holding the phone tightly against his ear, he tips out more coke, cutting it neatly into two more lines.

“And how are you?” he asks before putting one hand over the mouthpiece of his cell, leaning forward to snort a line, quick as lightning.

“I’m not so good, I just want you to come back here, really, when do you think you might come back—”

“He kicked me out.”

“It wasn’t like—”

“I’m not coming back.”

She falls utterly silent.

He continues. “Dad doesn’t want me there, I don’t want to be there, simple as that.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t—”

“He hit me.”

She gasps openly, sharply. “He didn’t.”

“He fucking did.”

She makes a noise he can’t quite discern, but he’s not really trying to figure it out. He’s too busy leaning forward to snort up the second line of coke, not bothering to cover his phone at all. “Please come home.”

“I can’t, mom. Pl-please just understand that,” he begs, swiping quickly at his nose. He’s not crying or anything, but his nose won’t stop running and his face is hot. His throat hurts.

He’s nostalgic for something that never happened, for bringing home a nice girl or boy for dinner, having his parents smile and nod like they accepted it without comment. He’s yearning for a backward self, a younger comfortable version that knew who he was and who was okay with it.

But now-him knows what he likes, knows he lives to suck cock and tits alike, knows he likes to plunge his fingers into the waiting warmth of a girl’s cunt, knows he likes to choke on dick like so many others do. He’s something other than a cliché.

“I—okay, jaan, sure, okay,” she begins, voice hesitant.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“You’re asking a lot from me, all in one phone call. I can’t just give up on you. You’re my son.”

“Yeah, I can sense your devotion from here,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. He knows he’s being petulant, but he feels he’s earned the right, a bit. More than.

“I _am_ devoted to you, to your safety and well-being.”

“Then don’t ask me to come home again. I can’t do it, not while the situation remains the same.”

“I’ll talk him ‘round, I promise, I will. I’m sure he was just—shocked. He loves you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You—don’t care?” She sounds breathless, shocked into a quiet pause.

“Look, I have to go, okay? Tell the girls I love them.” His throat hurts. His eyes well up.

“I will. Will you—please call me regularly? And I’ll call you, of course.”

“Only when—”

“Only when he’s not around. Yeah. I’m getting the picture.”

“Right.” He has the grace to feel a sharp shot of shame and sadness, right in his gut. He feels warm tears drip down his face.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He hangs up first, standing up to trip his way to the bathroom. He grips hard at the counter surrounding the sink, only belatedly looking into the mirror. His mouth is covered in blood, seeping from his nose drop by drop. 

He thought he was crying, not bleeding. Turns out he’s both.

:::

When Harry comes back, Zayn is prone on the couch, intently reading a Dorothy Parker tome he found near the foot of Harry’s bed. “She’s good,” he says without looking up, knowing his nose is no longer bleeding, knowing he no longer looks like a human disaster.

“She’s my favorite.”

Zayn drops it on the floor without ceremony, standing up. He gets lightheaded. “I called my fucking mother.”

Harry grins easily, stalking toward Zayn. “Good on you, good boy.”

“Why did you make me _do_ that?” Zayn asks, and he knows his tone is wheedling, unattractive.

Harry tips his head to one side. “As if I could _make_ you do anything.”

Zayn drops his head into his hands. “Why did I _listen_ to you then.”

“Because you miss her.”

“She didn’t try to call me.”

“You’re positive about that?”

“My phone’s been on this whole time. Even—even then, I didn’t let it die. Libraries have outlets, you know, as do bars.”

“As does my apartment.”

“She didn’t call.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

“It means she’s on his side.”

Harry sighs. “Come on, let’s eat.”

Zayn feels another pang of guilt, at abusing Harry’s hospitality. “I can help chip in, like. Money.”

“Okay,” Harry says with an easy shrug. “Whatever you say.”

“Don’t you, like, mind? I’m just posting up in your house.”

“People do it all the time. People just, like, live with me. I hate living alone. Everyone knows it. If you weren’t here I’d be crashed on a friend’s sofa.”

Zayn exhales.

“Seriously, though. I don’t mind.”

“When you do start to, please tell me. Short words, few syllables, be blunt.”

“Sure. Now come on. Dinner.”

Rather than moving where Zayn expects—namely, the kitchen—they leave the apartment. Harry leads the way carelessly, like they have all the time in the world. This probably isn’t inaccurate.

Harry still has the bandana tucked into his back pocket, of course. Zayn takes out a cigarette and lights it, wordlessly offering the pack to Harry, who declines. They enter a diner just as Zayn’s smoked down to the filter. The sign reads a neon _Sarafina._

“Home away from home, and open twenty-four hours to boot,” Harry says in a reverent whisper. “Best steak fries in the city, as far as I’m concerned.”

Zayn nods and they settle in to a cracked-and-taped-back-together booth. The room smells distinctly of chili. Harry orders them a pitcher of shitty beer and doesn’t bother to open the menu. Zayn studies Harry vaguely, wondering everything and not-much.

“Any dietary restrictions?” Harry asks, fiddling with his silverware.

“No pork.”

“The turkey burgers here are pretty good. Open-faced meatloaf sandwich is good too.”

“What do you get?”

“The Farmer’s Market. It’s just a shit-ton of veggies wrapped up in an omelet.”

Zayn snorts lightly. “So the hippie thing isn’t an act?”

“Hippie thing?” Harry’s eyebrows fold in on themselves. “Pretty sure hippies aren’t usually down to deal crack.”

“But the rest of it. The scarves and veggies and obsession with not-notably legal shit. The indie shit.”

“I also take art classes, lest we forget.” He says this with an ironic sense of pride.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You just do that for the nudity.”

“Added bonus. Figure drawing is only one class anyway.”

“Yeah yeah.”

They order, Zayn taking Harry’s advice on the turkey burger. Harry, for his part, chugs down a beer quickly, gulping unattractively.

“Cute.”

“Just drink.”

:::

They fuck on the couch, twice, and inhale lines like they’re never going to die. Then they down two beers apiece while listening to frankly shitty pop music that Harry claims is a guilty pleasure.

Then they head to a fucking country-western bar, another place Harry says he loves beyond a shadow of any doubt. Zayn sighs as he hands over his fake ID to the bouncer. It’s not really a fake, it’s his cousin’s—he paid for him to pretend he lost it and needed a replacement, but technically it’s not him, so it’s fake. Technically. Harry seems to know everyone well enough to not show ID, and Zayn isn’t surprised.

And he’s mostly not surprised when Harry heads straight toward the line for the _mechanical bull._

“Nope,” Zayn calls, backing away slowly. “Have fun.”

“Have fun watching, then,” Harry responds, in low but carrying tones.

And Zayn supposes he will.

He watches the amusing, ridiculous spectacle that is Harry attempting to sit astride a mechanical bronco. Harry manages okay, snaking a hand forward to anchor himself against the grip. His ropy bicep is apparent in the weird spotlight, even through the hazy manufactured smoke the bar is pumping out. He signals that he’s ready to move and is off in a flash, bucking back and forth like his spine is elastic. He grapples with the movement easily, fluidly, managing to stay seated for greater than a minute.

Harry eventually falls to the mat, and Zayn is so, so fucked.

:::

Trisha texts Zayn in the middle of the night, saying she’s transferred some cash into his account that his dad won’t notice, as long as he withdraws it all at once, and soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jaan means life//soul, can be used as a term of endearment
> 
> Please comment and yell at me, or chat about life and existential crises. I like kudos too?
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


	4. Come With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing is, he doesn’t even have to trick people into fucking him. Hell, of course he doesn’t even need to trick them, just needs to give them a glance and a private smile and the world is his. He’s not new to this game, even if he generally prefers not to play it.

Zayn stuffs his pocket full of cash as it flicks its way out of the ATM and suddenly feels a bit like a drug dealer, too, wonders if this is how Harry always feels when he’s holding. He contemplates shoving it all into a mattress or beneath his porch like a lunatic. He stops into the nearest bank branch, knowing he looks like a criminal there to case it. He goes up to the prettiest teller, a blonde thing with bright eyes.

He flirts a bit, not that he needs to, not that either of them need to, and for some reason the familiar act doesn’t seem rote. Even her familiar face seems fresher than he’s used to, seems like maybe he can use it to brighten his days.

He knows just what he looks like.

They—he and Perrie, for that’s what her name tag reads—meet up that afternoon and he’s pretty sure she’s not seduced by his _money_ of all things. He thinks it’s probably down to one of those _pulls_ that people sometimes feel.

That and the bruise on his jaw.

:::  
He fingers her in the back seat of her car. She comes twice before blowing him languidly, gloss-golden hair falling about her face. She’s a vision.

But she has places to be, so she kicks him out kindly after swiping at her mouth.

He thinks he’ll remember her name.

:::

Zayn hands Harry money for rent and food, feeling, if not at ease, then a bit un-clenched. Harry flushes a bit when Zayn hands him the cash.

“So you’re going to stick around?” he asks, voice low.

“That’s the plan.”

“Good.”

He invites Harry to his next fight, wanting—what, to show off, to fling out a display of masculinity so fierce no one can deny it?

Sometimes, Zayn is frail.

But tonight, he’s a riot of limbs and knuckles, a fury of movement. He rocks back and forth easily, moves away from his opponent neatly. Tonight he thinks he might be king.

And so what if he catches the hooded gaze of crowd members, looking at him with longing and lust. It doesn’t solve his problems but it doesn’t cause any. Maybe, a bit, he bleeds for them. They seem to understand him.

:::

Harry corners him in the locker room, which is fairly bare-bones, all things considered. Apparently illegal boxing rings, even when they take place in regulation gyms, don’t go for frills. Zayn, caught up in splashing water over his blood-spattered face (which is nowhere near the catastrophe his opponent’s is, or was when Zayn last saw him), doesn’t seem Harry approach him. The mirror is fogged up from steam and, realistically, the heady scent of way too much testosterone.

Harry swipes carefully at Zayn’s hip, giving him an easy grin. “You were—fuck, man,” he breathes, moving forward to stand beside Zayn against the counter. “That was fucking hardcore.”

“Yeah?” Zayn is slow to smile, wary of his sore lip, but his appreciation, his genuine joy, is palpable. “Glad you came.”

“You were like, a whirling dervish. That was a religious experience, I’m enamored, I’m enraptured. I’m hooked.”

Zayn snorts.

“Where’d you learn that? With the, like—” Harry mimes a jab, popping his hips inexpertly but making a fair show nonetheless. He smiles goofily.

“Here and there. Dad, my uncle. Cousins too.” Zayn shrugs. “And—for a jab, you want to plant your front food. Same side, staggered a bit.” He places his hands on Harry’s hips and shunts them, setting him in the proper stance. Then he backs away slightly, tapping his own sternum. “Hit me.”

“Some other time,” Harry responds, rolling his eyes. “You’re a bit battered and bruised at the moment.”

“Pull it, then. Pretend.” His adrenaline begins to wear off as Harry feints and lunges forward, one fist guarding his face at all times. Zayn begins to feel his tiny aches and his genuine wounds, and his face feels like a pounded steak. Other competitors bustle around them, collecting their belongings and tending to their wounds. “Not bad, but keep your day job, I think.”

“If you can call it that.” Harry stops shadow-boxing and looks at Zayn searchingly before sighing. He turns the sink on high, bumping Zayn backwards so he’s pressed on the edge of the counter. He swipes at the blood on Zayn’s lips, carefully washing away the carnage. His tenderness startles Zayn a bit but he settles into it eventually, his eyes falling shut.

They leave once Zayn’s mostly stopped bleeding, Harry handing him a water-soaked bandana to hold up to his face as they make their way back to his apartment.

“So that’s my world, then, or part of it.” Zayn feels half cracked-open and raw, like he’s exposed part of himself he can never get back. And that’s ridiculous, is the thing, his boxing is more performative than anything, is more about putting on a show and getting paid for it than anything else. It’s about limits and shoving past them and feeling fucking infinite.

Only right now he doesn’t feel so infinite, he feels small.

Harry leads him to the apartment by the hand, thumb tracing soothing circles against his knuckle. They collapse onto the couch and Harry packs a bowl, glaring at Zayn wordlessly. “Get ice for your face, you child,” he chides.

Zayn huffs out a laugh as he walks to the kitchen. “Guess I’m making myself right at home then.”

“Well, yeah, you live here, dumbass!” Harry calls. “What else would you do?”

Zayn ices his lip and watches Harry, notes the way his lighter’s flame brightens the angles of his face. He has an angelic quality about him, his curves soft rather than sharp. He frequently looks confused about the world around him and his place in it, Zayn’s found, but he’s also quick to smile, dimples popping ridiculously. 

The flame catches the bright green of his eyes, and Zayn tries to make himself swallow. 

The thing is, he doesn’t even have to trick people into fucking him. Hell, of course he doesn’t even need to trick them, just needs to give them a glance and a private smile and the world is his. He’s not new to this game, even if he generally prefers not to play it.

But something inside him keeps shifting around every time he looks at Harry, really _looks_ at him. He can’t help but think shiny-bright big-universe thoughts, things about the death of stars and the fate of the cosmos. 

He had no idea so much could be contained in so few words.

He finally swallows.

:::  
Eventually he feels expansive, as though his lungs have room to let air in and out. Instead of just seeing angels, he thinks he can hear them, their voices providing back-up vocals to his and Harry’s smoking.

He laughs to himself at the thought, making Harry turn to him. They’re sort of curled together on the couch, Harry’s long legs tucked underneath his giant-size body. “What?”

“I wonder what it’s be like to hear angels singing.”

“Probably like Christmas.”

“What?”

“With the, like, bells ringing and the snowfall muffling everything, plus everyone’s got this—joy about them. Lightness. It’s nice.”

Zayn snorts. “Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms,” he quotes, swooping an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“Sure,” Harry agrees, nodding, shifting so he can set himself bodily in Zayn’s lap. “Whatever you say.”

“There’s a healthy attitude,” Zayn says, but he’s smiling, because how can he not? Harry’s charming like a grinning shark, like a bear trap set to maim but with only the best of intentions. Zayn is mixing his metaphors, probably, is probably too stoned to be thinking things like this. So he pumps the brakes in his mind, and he starts humming _I Believe in a Thing Called Love._

Harry picks up the melody quickly, singing along to Zayn’s smoky hum. Harry’s voice has a low rasp to it, like he should try the blues sometime. Zayn snakes an arm around Harry’s waist and reels him in tighter. Harry smiles down at him sweetly and ducks in for a kiss.

They kiss for so long that Zayn loses track of time, not that he had the strongest grasp of it anyhow, and they eventually fall asleep on the couch, wrapped up in one another.

:::  
He wakes to Harry’s lips on his neck, suckling in hard like he’ll never let go. Zayn shudders out a laugh before pressing his fingers hard into the flesh of Harry’s hips. The room is slightly twilit, hazy and medium-blue. The only noise in the room is of their sloppy mouths and ragged breathing, of Harry mewling slightly under Zayn’s touch.

Harry’s hands are gentle with him, merely ghosting over his skin and his bruises and his wounds. Zayn doesn’t quite know what to do with gentle, so he bites down with his teeth and presses in with his fingers and pretends.

All things considered, he supposes he’s the luckiest he’s ever been.

:::

He wakes up again abruptly after nearly falling off the couch. He catches himself with one arm and rolls away from Harry’s warmth. Walking to the bathroom, he cracks his neck and tries not to feel annoyed at the brightness of the light streaming in the apartment windows. Harry probably paid through the nose when he put a deposit on the place—the windows are huge and the ceiling is vaulted. Zayn thinks realtors might describe the place as _airy._ Apparently drug money pays the bills.

He examines himself casually in the bathroom, poking at new bruises and old ones, noting that his hips seem gaunt and bony. He knows he’s basically made of wiry muscle and sinew, that his skin stretches taut over his bones in some places. He’s sharp and angular and not at all soft, except sometimes when he smiles.

And just what is he doing here, with his bloody lips and his overwhelming fury? What is he doing in a place like this with a boy like that? _What the fuck is he doing?_

He rakes his fingers through his hair and pulls, the pain grounding him slightly. He starts the shower and moves into the kitchen to get something, anything, that might wash the taste of bile out of his mouth. He settles for beer and an apple, figuring the one probably cancels out the other. He sets the apple on the coffee table beside Harry, who’s still sleeping soundly. Zayn doesn’t need healthy, not really.

:::  
“So what else do you like to do?” Harry asks from a cross-legged position on the floor. He’s weighing out dime bags. His hair’s gone wavy today, and he’s secured it away from his face with a piece of fabric that looks vaguely like the belt of a terrycloth bathrobe. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lips, like he’s forgotten about it, or maybe like he doesn’t actually have any intention of smoking at all.

Zayn is actually smoking a cigarette, fingers twitchy thanks to the coke he was constantly snorting. “Dunno. Burn stuff. Tag buildings. Most of my hobbies aren’t explicitly legal. My friend Ant was gonna teach me to hot-wire cars but got locked up before anything stuck.”

“None of them are legal?”

“I mean, maybe some of them.”

“I’m sure we could distill this into something pro-social. You, uh. You paint! You’re an artist.”

“And you provide vital herb-based medicinal supplies slash recreational necessities to the less fortunate,” Zayn rolls his eyes, exhaling a bit of smoke. “I do paint, though, not just tag.”

“See? There you go.” Harry leaned forward to look at the scale set near the edge of the coffee table. “Not sure how you can spin the burning-shit thing, though. That’s a bit more destructive. You’re not burning effigies or anything, are you? Because you could probably turn that into a religious career, making funeral pyres. Or move abroad and help people celebrate Guy Fawkes day.”

“Nah, New York suits me fine. Not super interested in the wet climate England would afford me.”

“So petty vandalism, then.”

“Mostly.” He figures he may as well get this out of the way so he can be once again kicked on his ass, might as well show the bumps and cracks before he gets attached, before something bad can happen. Might as well head it all off at the pass.

“Hm. Okay.”

_Here it comes, kick me out, kick me in the teeth while you do it, I deserve it, I deserve it all._

“Hey, switch me these for the empties?” Harry asks, gathering the full bags and gesturing with his chin to the shelf beside Zayn. Zayn’s lips quiver against his cigarette as he moves the baggies, forming part of the assembly line of two.

“What else can I do?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, obviously.” Harry smiles at him, looking both benevolent and genuine, eyes alight and warm. “And maybe sing me something?

“Like what?”

“Like anything. Like what your mom sang you as a kid.”

“They’re mostly in Urdu.”

“S’fine.”

Zayn re-situates himself slightly. “Abhee gunjenge mohabbat ke taraane kitne / Jindagee tumako sunaayege fasaane kitne,” Zayn half-sings, eyes pitched down to the floor. He’s fucking embarrassed, a bit, but the song is a comforting one, at least to him. Memories of his mom are comforting.

Harry nods along to the beat, bopping as he fills up the next baggie. “That’s nice. What does—what does it translate to?”

“It’s—I don’t know precisely, but it’s about love stories and love songs, that bit. The whole thing is apparently something people play at weddings, I guess. My mom likes the sappy shit.”

“Me too, obviously,” Harry says, like it really is obvious.

“Do—is it like, that you view your world?”

“How?”

“Like, romantically. Fate and love songs and things meant to be.”

The smile Harry graces him with is gentle, if probing. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

And all potential responses feel cruel, so instead Zayn doesn’t say anything, merely hums the rest of the song into the open air.

:::

Harry cooks them lunch while Zayn idly smokes a cigarette, ashing it into an empty beer bottle, before they return to Harry’s day job.

“When did you start smoking? Like, how old were you?”

Zayn snuffles slightly, fingers stained with tobacco, an acidic taste in his mouth. “Fifteen, I guess? Or fourteen. That’s about when I started to come out to classmates, yeah? And my friends are great, always were, but my classmates aren’t—weren’t good about it. Any of it. They all just conflated it to gay, which is a death sentence, and plus I’m Muslim and half Pakistani, which apparently makes me the devil. Even here. Everyone in my family smokes, really.” He sighs. “Started drinking at fourteen too, actually.”

“You did?”

“Course. Bad breakup, bullied and shit, trying to come out unsuccessfully. Identity shit. It compounded.”

“Compounded?”

Zayn removes the cigarette from his lips, ashing it as he considers how to respond. “I cared and I cared and I cared, for forever. And it hurt too bad, caring that much. What people thought of me, what I thought of them. I couldn’t let every kiss get to me, let every set of pretty lips send me reeling. So I just—fucked my way out of it, until I stopped caring. Let smoke seep in the cracks of me. Drinking helped, numbed me the way out of it, numbed me and snuffed out the hurt a bit. Everything was too much until it was nothing.”

Harry runs his tongue over his top row of teeth. “You have a poetic soul, Z. And a strange urge to cause your own undoing.”

Zayn blinks. “That’s—how do you fucking exist?”

“How do any of us exist, really?”

Zayn sighs, then, grabbing a handful of empty baggies. “Let me help, then, yeah?”

“Nah, you’re all right. Grab some beers and turn on some music, maybe, babe? Pretty please?”

“Of course.” Zayn clambers to his feet.

“And ice your lip again, if you would.”

“Anything for you,” he mutters, gathering drinks and ice, walking on knock-kneed legs. He opens the beer and throws the bottle caps to one side, necking at one drink quickly.

When he walks back into the room, he sees Harry’s moved back to the couch, arms spread out wide at his sides. He looks like the king of his pretty little castle, the lord of the fucking manor.

Zayn snorts. “Look at you,” he murmurs, biting his bottom lip.

Harry moves one hand to his own thigh, rubbing at his jeans gently. Zayn hands him his beer, climbing onto his lap without a word. “Pretty boy,” Zayn mutters, moving to Harry’s lap, bracketing Harry’s legs with his own. “Come here,” he demands, throwing one arm around Harry’s neck, reining him in. Harry cants his legs up, their pelvises rocking together harshly.

Harry bites his bottom lip, eyes falling shut as Zayn rides his thighs rhythmically.

“Pretty pretty,” Zayn says again, canting forward. “You wanna fuck me?”

“If you ask me nice, baby,” Harry says with a teasing tone, gripping tight as hell at Zayn’s legs.

“Please, pretty boy, fuck me hard?”

Harry surges up, planting his lips with bruising force, grating their skin together. They moan loudly into the silent room, their hands tight on one another’s bodies. Zayn purses his lips and nips at Harry’s skin, grinding against him. “I will, I want—what do you want?”

“Anything. Fuck me, blow me, whatever.”

“Really?”

“Please, babe, please.”

Harry fingers at Zayn’s jeans, clumsily attempting to undo his fly. “Love, yeah, let me, let’s. You’re so pretty on top of me, so pretty everywhere.”

“T-this mutual admiration society is n-nice and all,” Zayn breathes out softly, “but if you don’t get a hand on me, I will absolutely slap you.”

“Wait. You will?”

“Yes, really,” Zayn huffs out immediately, exasperated and annoyed. Until—“What, do you want me to?”

“W-what, what else could I possibly fucking want?” He presses lightly against Zayn’s chest, maneuvering so he himself can lie flat on his back, letting Zayn loom over him. His speech slows even more when he’s like this, Zayn notices, sex-drugged and liquid.

“Where?” Zayn asks stupidly, eyes wide.

“Anywhere but the face. The face is the moneymaker.”

Zayn snorts and brings a hand down harshly across Harry’s pec muscle, but the sound doesn’t resonate, since he’s clothed. He shoots a wild gaze Harry’s way, sees his pupils are blown-out and glassy. “Do you—do you know what you look like? Fuck.”

Harry gives him a feline grin before his mouth falls open in a gasp, his eyelids fluttering shut as Zayn smacks him again, this time on the hip. “Don’t you?”

“Christ,” Zayn growls, stripping them both with haste, like he might die in the very next minute. He thinks maybe he will. He dips down to bite at Harry’s skin, to mark him and hurt him and make him feel lovely. _“Mine.”_

“Yours, yours,” Harry agrees easily, eyes falling shut. “Yours. Whatever you want, babe, do it.”

Zayn hits him again, slaps him successively across his chest and thighs and arms, their cocks stiffening throughout. His hand moves to Harry, poking his finger at his pooling precome, teasing but also satisfying himself a bit. Somehow.

He slaps against Harry’s right pec, hitting his nipple hard and fast. Harry gasps, so Zayn hits him there again, using his other hand to fist around Harry’s cock lazily. He thumbs against the slit and rains down a succession of sharp slaps, mostly aimed at Harry’s chest and arms, until his own palm aches. Harry comes within moments of a loud crack against his sternum, hot and wet all over Zayn’s hand and his own chest. “Fucking Christ, sorry, I just—”

Zayn slaps him again, smearing Harry’s come across the littered tattoos on his chest. “Don’t fucking apologize,” he grinds out, slapping Harry’s hip and thigh and upper arm. Harry abruptly surges forward and flips Zayn onto his back, moving over him, peppering his face with kisses. He yanks Zayn’s thighs open, settling between them and snaking his hand towards Zayn’s ass.

“What can I do, what do you want? Want you to feel good.”

“Fi-fingers, mouth, anything.”

Harry grins at him, feline again, throwing Zayn’s legs up over his shoulders. He mouths along Zayn’s inner thigh and spreads his ass open, one hand on each cheek. Zayn starts babbling immediately as Harry licks over his rim, incoherent and stupid with pleasure. His own words are white noise as Harry presses his tongue inside Zayn, easing him open slowly. A distant part of Zayn’s mind wonders if Harry minds, if he feels obligated, and he must voice this thought in some manner because Harry laughs. The rumbly sound vibrates through Zayn’s skin momentarily, but then Harry retreats an inch or so. Zayn whines until he hears Harry mutter, “I don’t mind,” laughter in his gravelly voice.

He leans back in and again Zayn is incoherent, thinks he might just be muttering the word _mine_ over and over again.

He comes without a hand on his cock, just with Harry’s tongue inside him.

***  
They collapse in a sleepy haze for a few hours, sticky and sated, before Harry tumbles them both into a hot shower. They clean one another off, Zayn silently listening to Harry talk about his art classes and, inexplicably, his favorite fruits.

“You’re a weird little shit, you know that?” Zayn eventually murmurs, his fingers rubbing along Harry’s wet scalp.

“Yes. I know.”

They dress and Harry tosses some stuff in a messenger bag, eyes trained on his phone. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. There’s this party tonight, if you wanna go.”

“Friend thing or client thing?”

“Louis told me about it. Mostly friends, I think.”

Zayn picks up his beer, now lukewarm but still drinkable. “I won’t cramp your style?” he asks, one brow raised high. He knows.

“Nah. Lemme show you off, huh?”

“I’ll dig out my prettiest frock, in that case,” he responds easily, sitting back down on the couch, posture mimicking Harry’s laid-out ease from before.

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’d do that for me?” he asks, tone gone serious and dark.

Zayn stutters out a startled laugh.

Harry steps across to Zayn, knocking their knees together. “Put on stockings and heels, like a pretty thing?”

“If you’d like,” he agrees slowly, assess the way Harry’s eyes have gone thunderous and intense, again. He traces the lip of his beer bottle with one thumb, mouth inching out a smirk. “I might be persuaded.”

“You’d need persuading?” Harry asks carefully, leaning forward to plant a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Sweet-talking.” Zayn smirks harder, a fire lit just inside his throat. “Rewards. Maybe a point system.”

“Whatever you want, anything you want.”

“I’ll make a list.”

Harry’s phone lights up in his pocket, the screen visible through a hole in the denim of his jeans. “I gotta go. Stay out of trouble.” He gives Zayn a messy kiss, dirty and wet on his lips.

Zayn says nothing, merely watches Harry leave. He finishes his beer and Harry’s discarded one, fishing his sketchbook out of his bag once he’s done. Harry seems to only have fountain pens and colored pencils in his apartment, nothing resembling a normal writing utensil because _of course_ he wouldn’t write his grocery list with a goddamn ballpoint. Zayn rolls his eyes and begins to sketch a shadowy, gray version of Harry’s face just after their shower, eyes relaxed, lips soft.

On the back he draws Harry’s cock with a level of accuracy he finds a bit alarming.

He smokes a bowl and leisurely puts eyeliner on, rimming his lashes with kohl the way Doni taught him. He teases his hair up, cleans off his split lip, and sets about to get fucked up.

:::  
Harry leads him to some shit-hole warehouse in Bushwick, and Zayn can hear a thumping bass-line before they even get inside. Harry has one hand shoved into the back pocket of Zayn’s jeans, cupping his ass tightly, and they’re both just—flying. Zayn is happy-numb, bright like a fucking star, high on _white white white._

“You’re beautiful!” Harry crows, fingers digging into Zayn’s ass again. “Always are, but like this—shine. You’re shining.”

“Like Stephen King intended?” Zayn responds with a laugh.

“You’re so fucking weird. Come on, I spotted Lou.”

Louis is sat bodily _on_ the bar, holding court to a small crowd, his voice somehow easily heard over the din of the music. He passes out tequila shots and sharp laughs, his eyes catching the neon of the light behind the bar.

Harry and Zayn tuck into the crowd and let themselves spin with it, with the sweaty, stupid feeling in the air. Zayn traces Harry’s tattoos with his fingertips, presses down on his own bruises and bites. He feels beautiful.

Someone tips against him, startling him away from Harry’s skin for a moment, and he sees Perrie and Jesy wrapped around one another, dancing a rhythm discordant with the beat. He remembers her, then, as the mysterious blonde Jesy attached herself to at some previous party, remembers their familiarity and intimacy. He wonders what the fuck he should think about that, but can’t manage to think of anything, coke-numb as he still is, bright as the lights are in his eyes.

Instead he slips Harry’s hand into his own, squeezing tight.

Perrie eventually sees him and laughs a loud guffaw, looking between him and Harry and giving him a wink. Then she skates her hand over Jesy’s full lips, grinding her hips in slow circles to the music. She ignores Zayn for the rest of the night.

Zayn sees other people he vaguely remembers meeting, people covered in glitter with blown-wide pupils and spit-slick lips. He keeps a tight hand on Harry, feeling predatory and beautiful. His possessive streak comes out at the weirdest times, but it’s probably the coke fueling the fire in his throat.

“Mine,” he mutters, bending a bit to bite at Harry’s shoulder.

“All right,” Harry replies with a white-hot grin. “Let’s dance.”

And Zayn doesn’t dance but for Harry he pretends he does, swirling his hips, thinking of nothing and smiling like the piece of shit he’s convinced he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obviously, Anglo-style spelling of Urdu is gonna vary but I tried to roll with the most consistent spellings I was able to locate. I DO NOT SPEAK URDU good lord I only know some half-assed Arabic phrases my mom taught me ages and ages ago. I’m Lebanese, not Pakistani. I am so sorry for all of the inevitable inaccuracies.
> 
> The translation is approximately this:
> 
> There will echo too many anthems of love  
> Life will tell you stories too many
> 
> Everything I know about New York comes from my brother, who lived there up until five days ago. Apparently a shit-hole warehouse party would either take place in Bushwick (in Brooklyn) or East Williamsburg. Transparency, amiright? Seriously I know nothing about New York, I live in Chicago. So, sorry bout that.
> 
> Come chat at me on tumblr: musiclily


	5. Push it Like You’ll Die Without Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi!” Harry calls brightly, turning bodily to look at Zayn. “This is Liam! He’s one of the models from my figure-drawing class.”
> 
> Only then does Zayn stop to look at the other occupant in the room. He’s vaguely familiar somehow, maybe, with short shorn hair a bit like a Marine. He has big dark eyes and pillow lips, but he’s looking at Zayn like he wants to hurt him.
> 
> Zayn hates him. “Liam.” He nods.
> 
> “You looks like shit.”
> 
> “I know what I look like,” Zayn snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIIIII new chapter. If you're in the eastern bit of the US, I hope you don't lose power so you can enjoy the smut and the stupid boys being stupid.
> 
> Also I DO know how to box, I started training two months ago--so I'm still learning, but I know a thing or two. Literally probably just a thing or two.

Days later, Zayn heads to the gym he boxes at, intending to get a few rounds in on the bag without anyone around. He spots a bloke with knock-knees and dyed-blond hair—he’s swinging avidly at the bag, manically bouncing his feet around like he’s dancing a jig.

Zayn watches for a moment until he’s noticed, the guy breaking into a bright grin as he spots him. “Oh! It’s you, hi!”

“It’s me?”

“I’ve seen you fight. Few times now, actually. You’re good!”

“Thanks, mate. I’m Zayn.” He waves vaguely, since the other guy has gloves on and can’t reasonably shake his hand.

“Niall! Family owns this place. Dad runs it, mostly. Good to meet you.”

“You too.” Zayn considers his pink cheeks and bright blue eyes. He looks fuckable, adorable even, but Zayn isn’t sure about the vibe he’s getting. He sucks his cheeks in slightly, pursing his lips. “Do you work here, or just work out?”

“Both. And you are good, you know. That’s not shit. Though I talk a lot of shit of course!” Niall responds, bouncing easily around the punching bag.

“Sure. Me too.”

“Wanna spar it out, do you think? Give me a go?”

Zayn bites at his bottom lip. “Love to.”

“Could make it a regular thing, even. Then me putting ten to one on you to win might actually be a good life decision, yeah? Train you up right.”

“I’m not sure if I’m insulted or not.”

“No, no! You’re good, got a lot of raw talent. But could stand to be trained up a bit. That’s all.” He grins, bright as the sun. “I think you could someday be even better than me,” he adds, flexing his pale biceps with relish. “Bit of a disaster, me, with the limbs and the fucked-up knees, but dad taught me as a toddler and that’s hard to forget.”

“Okay.” Zayn nods, processing this all slowly.

“I’m a sharer,” Niall says, slipping his hands out of his boxing gloves and into flat boxing pads. He squares up his feet and looks at Zayn expectantly, waiting for him to put on gloves of his own. “Come on, pretty boy, let’s get with the program. Lads have got place to be.”

Zayn snorts but hops to attention. He velcroes himself into two gloves and smiles, the cracks around his heart solidify just a bit.

“Attaboy. Hop to.”

***  
Zayn shunts his way into the apartment, hitting his hip against the door. He stops short in the entranceway, seeing that Harry is sat on the couch with someone, each of them slugging beers. “Hi,” he drawls, narrowing his eyes. His face hurts a bit from the bruises and the blood, but he’s riding through it.

“Hi!” Harry calls brightly, turning bodily to look at Zayn. “This is Liam! He’s one of the models from my figure-drawing class.”

Only then does Zayn stop to look at the other occupant in the room. He’s vaguely familiar somehow, maybe, with short shorn hair a bit like a Marine. He has big dark eyes and pillow lips, but he’s looking at Zayn like he wants to hurt him.

Zayn hates him. “Liam.” He nods.

“You looks like shit.”

“I know what I look like,” Zayn snaps.

“He does,” Harry agrees, face lit up and dimpling. “He’s pretty. I like it.”

“Right.” Liam raises his brows a bit.

“You two know each other, then?” Harry asks, one brow high up into his bangs.

“He boxes,” Liam explains slowly. “Near here. I’ve seen him. Boxing.”

Harry chuckles. “Your storytelling does nothing to rival mine. Silly.”

“Silly?” Liam’s voice goes deep. He sounds, dare Zayn think it, offended.

“Bit silly,” Zayn agrees, running his tongue against his teeth. His chest hurts. “What’ve you two been up to?”

Harry shrugs. “Shooting shit, I guess. Hanging out.”

“Normal shit,” Liam agrees, smiling easily, looking oily—gamey.

“Uh huh.” Zayn licks his lips once and moves toward the kitchen, grabbing himself a beer. He’s probably intruding, feels like he’s intruding—but what does he have to intrude upon? Harry isn’t his boyfriend, he’s gotten off with others during their time together. He has no claim. And yet a hot fire claws at his throat, and he has rage in his chest. 

He returns to the living room. “Fun afternoon?” he asks, voice light and lying.

“Yeah!” Harry crows, leaning back into the cushion of the couch. “Liam’s like, a good person, you know.”

“Oh.” Zayn blinks. “That’s good.”

Liam tilts his head back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says slowly. “I’mma shower.”

“Join?” Harry asks, a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“Not if you two want to catch up, yeah? It’s—it’s up to you.”

They don’t join Zayn in the shower, but Harry corners his as he’s dressing in the bedroom. “Kinda cute that you’re jealous,” he begins, crowding Zayn toward the bed, lips red and spit-slick.

“I’m what?”

“Nothing happened,” Harry sing-songs, smirking.

“Okay.”

“Maybe shoulda done, since I smelled her on you. You know.”

Zayn bites his bottom lip.

“Was she good?”

He sighs a bit. “Yeah. She was.”

“Huh,” Harry says, as though he’s genuinely considering something. “Bring her around sometime. The more the merrier.”

***  
When Zayn emerges from the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, he makes no effort to hide himself but also doesn’t actively try to show off. He puts on skinny gray jeans and his shirt that proclaims _thank you fuck you have a nice day!_ He hopes the message translates.

He grabs another beer and re-enters the living room, where he notices that Liam’s sprawled out on the floor. Harry, from his spot on the couch, is sketching him. Again, Zayn has to tamp down the angry fire in his gut. He calls himself irrational and sighs heavily.

“You can draw him too, if you like,” Harry offers without looking up. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Liam rolls his eyes but otherwise remains still. His eyes travel to Zayn, his gaze passive. “You look a bit less like shit now.”

“Charmer, this one. Where’d you find him again?”

“Art class,” Harry reminds him, smudging a pencil line with his right ring finger.

“You an artist, Liam?” Zayn asks, sitting on the couch far away from Harry.

“Nope.”

Harry looks over at Zayn, smiling. “He just likes taking off his clothes in front of appreciative college chicks.”

“It’s a liberated generation we belong to,” Liam says loftily. “And really, Harry, chicks? Weren’t you the one going on a tear about feminism and patriarchal oppression not two days ago?”

“That’s because Matty wouldn’t stop staring at Leigh’s rack and it was obnoxious.” Harry huffs indignantly.

“Yeah, the male gaze, gender is performative, traditional masculinity is restrictive and archaic,” Liam recites, rolling his eyes again.

“Well at least it sounds like you listened,” Zayn reasons quietly, taking a swig from his beer.

“Hard not to. His voice kind of carries.”

“I’m just saying,” Harry counters, sounding mortally offended.

“I’m a boxer, H. Traditional masculinity is kind of my thing.”

“I’m a boxer too and it’s not really my thing,” Zayn points out.

Liam smirks. What a shit. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“You’re a shit.” Zayn digs out a pack of cigarettes and the only lighter he could find in his knapsack.

“I’m a nice person. Nice enough, at any rate.”

Zayn knows the world well enough to know that no, Liam is not really nice enough, probably. He might be a good person, he might have the body of a Grecian god, but he is most definitely not _nice enough._

“You can’t be a nice person.”

“Why?” Harry asks distractedly, biting at his top lip.

“God doesn’t grace people that generously.” He lights up his cigarette and waves it vaguely at Liam’s torso.

Liam huffs. “I worked hard for these abs.”

Harry starts humming _She Works Hard For the Money_ a small smile playing at his lips.

“I’m sorry, H, was my ab comment too aggressively masculine for you? Had to bring some Donna Summer into this?”

Zayn shoots Liam a sharp-eyed look.

“I like Donna Summer, Leema. Don’t impugn my taste.”

“I’m not—what did you say? Impugning anything.”

Zayn concedes this point. “Technically he even recognized the song, so while I’d hate to agree with the beefcake on this one, point in his favor.”

“You’ll grow to love me,” Liam counters, licking his lips. “You’ll see.”

They sit in silence for a while, Zayn chain-smoking and scowling, while Harry continues to sketch. Eventually he claims to have _lost the light_ and demands that they both _smoke a j_ with him.

“I think you’re the whitest boy I’ve ever met,” Zayn sighs, leaning down the couch to flick Harry in the forehead.

“It’s endearing,” Harry argues, packing weed into the bowl of his favorite purple piece. Zayn knows it’s his favorite, because Harry says it every time he uses it, which is multiple times daily.

“It’s something,” Zayn says grudgingly, settling in to Harry’s side. They’re both bony, and it’s awkward but also warm and nice and Zayn doesn’t hate it. “Yeah, okay. Fine.” He sets his temple in Harry’s shoulder and takes a deep breath. “Endearing. Sure.”

Liam rolls his eyes but sits up from his spot on the floor. “I’m game. Confused, but game.”

Harry laughs brightly. “You in a nutshell, maybe?”

“Only if your nutshell is headscarves and hair wax.”

“Excuse me, Liam! I do not use _any_ product in my hair,” Harry squawks as if mortally offended.

Liam narrows his eyes. “You keep saying that, but I don’t entirely believe you.”

“Don’t I have a trustworthy face?” Harry purses his lips, bringing the piece up to his face as he holds the lighter with an expert ease he brings to very few of his actions.

“You have a—face?” Liam agrees slowly. “You’re also operating a pretty impressive drug-running operation from inside your apartment. Which I think is a felony.”

“It is.” Zayn nods, watching Harry light up. Harry sucks in smoke greedily, cheeks bulging, lips pursing around the hazy air he’s trying to force into his lungs.

Harry gestures to Zayn with two fingers, waving him closer. He puts their lips _almost_ together, exhaling carefully into Zayn’s open mouth. Heat prickles up Zayn’s neck and throat as smoke rolls over his tongue. He hears Liam chuckle, maybe bitterly, before he backs away.

As the smoke hits lungs, he thinks, not for the first time, that maybe he’ll never die.

He watches lazily as Harry leans away, toward Liam, who walks his way forward on his knees. Harry bends at the waist toward Liam’s kneeling figure. He watches them shotgun as well, acknowledging at least to himself that Liam _is_ fairly pretty. That makes him even less trustworthy, in Zayn’s opinion. At least a bit.

Or really, he’s jealous, like Harry said. Liam and Harry make a pretty picture, both big-eyed and full-lipped. Zayn feels like a hanger-on, and in a sense, he is. He has no real place here, no real place anywhere. He’s just someone sitting on a sofa, getting high. Business as usual.

Only the fire in his chest won’t settle down, the hot, heavy feeling won’t move. He grunts to himself quietly as he watches Harry plant a soft kiss on Liam’s lips before handing Zayn his piece.

“Need a beer.”

Zayn, who was nursing his, lights up a hit and inhales, eyes falling shut. He opens up his lungs and the fire in his chest increases, rather than settling down. He exhales slowly, opening his eyes. “I’m not going to shotgun with you.”

“I figured.” Liam shrugs, leaning back against the coffee table. He’s still shirtless. He holds out a hand for the pipe. After Zayn gives it over, he speaks. “You need to protect your face more, you know. You rely too much on your quick footwork to get you out of the way. You forget to protect yourself properly.”

Zayn crinkles his brow. “What?”

“Hands up. At all times, you know?” He demonstrates after setting the piece down, holding two fists in front of his face.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Thus the bruises.”

Harry returns just in time to hear this comment, his big hands holding three cold beers. He hands one to Liam and Zayn each, settling back on the couch. He looks rather impressed with himself. “Smoke up, fellas. No time like the present,” he advises, taking a long pull from his own beer.

Zayn realizes his problem belatedly, frowning slightly as he does so. This is the first time he’s been made to feel uncomfortable in Harry’s apartment, and the fact frustrates him. He fell so easily into Harry’s life and routine that a disruption—this disruption in the form of a beefcake boxer—makes him ache a little.

He has no claim on Harry’s life or Harry’s lips or Harry’s bed. All the same, he cuddles in a bit when Harry’s settled on the couch again, eliciting a small smile, a private smile. Zayn presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s jaw, earning him a questioning sound from the back of Harry’s throat.

“No time like the present,” he points out.

Liam clears his throat and hands Harry the pipe, flopping onto his back on the floor. “You two are gross, you know.”

“Aw,” Harry coos slightly, necking from his beer again. “Don’t worry, Liam, you too can someday be gross. It just takes practice.”

“Pass.”

“Your loss,” Zayn murmurs, shrugging easily.

Harry beams at him, bright as anything.

The fire in his throat cools.

***  
They laze in the living room for awhile, languidly smoking and drinking until it’s properly nighttime outside. Eventually Liam shrugs into his shirt and stretches upward, groaning. that he has to leave for work.

Zayn speaks instantly, forgetting for a moment that he dislikes Liam immensely. “Where do you work?”

“Oh. I mean. All over, but I have a shift at the liquor store now.” He looks at Harry, who seems to know that this is somehow significant or something.

“Tell Paddy I say hi.”

“Will do.” He moves across the room, behind the couch, pausing to yank Harry’s head back by a fistful of hair. He plants a sloppy kiss on Harry’s forehead and strides out of the apartment without looking back.

Zayn blinks repeatedly once he’s gone. Harry exhales slowly, falling sideways so his head sits in Zayn’s lap.

“So that’s Liam,” Zayn says slowly, measuring each word.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I am not.” He’s not sure which bit he’s arguing anymore—the cuteness or the jealousy, when clearly Harry’s got his number on this one. He is cute, and he most certainly is jealous.

“Uh huh.”

The fire in his throat gets fanned a bit by this, and Zayn doesn’t think anything can cool it down.

***  
Zayn helps Harry organize some of his product that night, still sitting lazily on the cough. “So,” he begins at one point, somewhere into his fifth beer and their third bowl. “Why the coke thing? I get the weed, but it seems like coke’s not really—a go-to anymore.”

Harry shrugs. “I dunno. It’s weird, it like—calms me down and revs my focus at the same time? Someone once tried to explain it to me like giving a stimulant to a kid with ADHD. Activates my frontal lobe in all the right places. Addy does the same thing for me.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“But I dunno, a little variety can be nice.” Harry hums for a moment before diving into a bag by his side. He fishes out a baggie of pills and hands a few to Zayn. “Addy’s the hardest to keep in stock really. Not hard to get ahold of. Physicians are less likely to hand out Xanax than they used to be, but that’s not impossible, either. Nothing’s really impossible.”

“Your life motto?” Zayn wonders, putting the pills into his pocket to be taken later.

“Yeah. Prolly don’t wanna fuck on Addy, though, shrinks your dick, they say. Not speaking from experience.” Harry leers. “Just makes me horny and weird.”

“You’re always horny and weird.”

“Yup.”

“Wanna have sex on the kitchen counter?”

“Pretty much always, yes.”

Zayn grins widely and shucks off his shirt. Tossing it across the room, he stands up and shimmies his way to the kitchen because, well, he knows at least one thing.

***  
The next day, a very sore Zayn and a chipper Harry go to the head shop that Harry sometimes deals out of. Zayn spends some of his hard-won money on a silver one-hitter, sticking it in the packet with his remaining cigarettes while Harry loiters conspicuously.

“You’re loitering.”

“I’m waiting for Jeff, calm down if you please.”

Zayn purses his lips, popping them out unnecessarily. “Fine.”

Harry snorts. “Let me guess, you want me to pat your head and tell you that you’re pretty?”

“No, but you’re welcome to do that anyhow.”

Harry yanks at a lock of Zayn’s hair, one cheek dimpling. “Fine, go get us coffee or something, you antsy twat. Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”

“How do you take it?”

“Cream, two sugars. Get me a scone?” Harry flings a wallet—and Zayn knows for a fact it’s his _second_ wallet, because he keeps two on him, of course, in case he’s ever mugged or carded, apparently, which Zayn knows because Harry told him thrice already—at him.

“I’m a kept man,” Zayn deadpans, flipping the wallet back to Harry. “Nah, it’s good, I’ve got funds.”

“Kiss,” Harry demands, turning his cheek up despite the fact that he’s taller than Zayn.

Zayn bites at Harry’s jaw and licks the spot afterwards before pressing his lips to it softly. “Kiss,” he agrees.

They kiss once with closed mouths before Zayn leaves to get their coffees. Because he’s a sap, probably.  
***  
His next sparring-slash-training session with Niall includes an awkward stare-down with Liam, who’s sweaty and heaving on the rowing machine. They eye one another stupidly, Zayn frowning while Liam sighs.

Niall runs him hard, heavy on footwork and bouncing around. Zayn remembers to keep his hands up, protecting his face. He remembers it all.

Zayn comes back to Harry’s place and finds a goddamn punching bag hanging from the ceiling of the ostensible dining room. His eyes mist, and he hates himself. He corners Harry once he finds him, cutting fruit in the kitchen. Of course.

“Of course,” he mutters fondly, sidling up behind Harry, cupping Harry’s hips in his hands. “You’re lovely.”

“She’s got style she’s got grace, she’s got come upon her face?” Harry suggests, an easy grin playing on his lips as always.

“You’re cute, but you’re kind of a shit feminist.”

“I’m horny!”

“You want me to come on your face, is that it?”

Harry blanches, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “Will you?”

And naturally Zayn’s breath goes shallow, his eyebrows rising. “Anything you want, babe.” He’s good, he’s giving. He’s horny as a motherfucker, just like Harry is, just like always. He leans forward to unbutton Harry’s pants, his tight jeans sticking close against his hips. He’s pretty, probably prettier than Zayn is used to—he’s used to being the best-looking one in the room. Harry is his beautiful, sexual competition, but he doesn’t really mind

He undoes Harry’s jeans and grins, hard and fierce, like he’s protecting himself. “So big,” he murmurs, to himself and Harry alike, to remind themselves that they are _in this._

He mentally smacks himself, his mother’s—his goddamn mother’s—voice loud in his head, reminding him that his home isn’t ever meant to be a person. “Never ever make a person into your home,” she said, again and again. “Don’t do it.”

He spits slightly at the memory, trying to play it off as vaguely sexual. He’s still unsure why people ever take him seriously—he’s actually quite ridiculous.

Because he’s gone and ignored his mother’s sage advice. He’s made someone his home.

Rather than think about it, he yanks Harry’s jeans and boxers down before tapping one of Harry’s shoulders lightly, silently telling him to kneel down. Harry complies gracefully, legs crumpling beneath him so the fabric of his jeans is folded beneath his knees. He tips his head back eagerly, eyes bright, before nodding once.

Zayn flicks open his own jeans but barely moves them off his hips, immediately running the pad of this thumb over the slit to smear at the precome glistening there. Harry bites his bottom lip as he stares up at Zayn’s semi, eyes glassy.

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn mutters, fisting at himself with one hand. For a second he can’t catch his breath, until he remembers he might need to try inhaling. He gasps, throat raw and fiery. “Don’t come until I do.”

Harry nods and plants one of his giant hands on his own cock, fully erect and dark. His eyes are dark with blown-wide pupils as he watches Zayn jack off. The only sound in the room is the slick sound of skin on aching skin and their labored breathing. Zayn’s chest begins to heave—he really needs to cut back on the fucking smoking—and his brain begins to fizz, because of course he’s holding his breath again.

Except this time he rocks into it, moving back and forth into his fist as he watches Harry’s earnest face flush. His body starts to tingle as he fucks forward, biting down on his lip and holding his breath in tight. His stomach and spine coil with heat as his vision pricks with stars. He comes with a stifled grunt, spilling over Harry’s cheeks and upturned lips in thick ropes of come.

Harry starts to lick the mess off his face as Zayn watches, trying to remember how to breathe. He shuffles forward slightly to lick at Zayn’s hand and spent cock, as well, before he tightly grips at his own dick with ferocity.

Warm come drips down Harry’s bright pink cheeks and his eyes fall shut as Zayn moves a gentle hand to his hair. He cards his fingers through Harry’s thick curls, only placing slight pressure. Harry levers off Zayn with a slick-sounding _pop_ and sits his ass back on his heels. He pistons his hips up and down, a low whine ripping out of his throat.

“Fuck,” Zayn whispers, running his fingers through Harry’s hair harder, yanking a bit. With that, Harry starts to babble nonsensically and within moments he’s coming too, over his fist and onto his clothes and the floor. “Pretty boy,” Zayn murmurs, pressing his fingers into Harry’s scalp as Harry yields beneath him.

Harry slowly swipes at his face and sticks his come-covered fingers in his mouth immediately, cheeks hollowing and lips puckering. He pops them out and grins up at Zayn. They tuck themselves back into their jeans and Zayn chuckles. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“And what a sexy death it will be,” Harry agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, criticism, kudos, anything at all? Come yell at me.
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


	6. Lies I Told You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry frowns. He looks like someone’s concerned father, like he’s worried someone hasn’t finished eating their vegetables. For a drug dealer, he looks surprisingly adorable. Fatherly. For a criminal, he’s cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allusions to past sexual assault, my loves, PLEASE note this. Please, if you're triggered by these things, tap out.

Two days later, Zayn wakes up to the sensation of Harry biting his chest, sucking in hard. His back arches involuntarily, his chest surging upward to meet Harry’s lips and harsh teeth. “Christ, you’re a menace,” he grits out, shoving Harry bodily off him.

“Sorry. I got bored.” Harry curls up against Zayn’s side, head hooked over his shoulder slightly.

“You got bored.”

“You slept late!”

“Yes, well.” Zayn hates mornings and all things associated with daylight. Like being awake and being alive.

“Wonderfully responsive, you are. I could feel your blood vessels popping.”

“That’s just about the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard someone say.”

“True, though. Actually it was the only indication you were still, like, alive. You sleep like the dead.”

“I was tired,” Zayn says plainly, like telling a very stupid child the color of the sky.

“Yes, I gathered.” Harry stretches languidly, yawning into Zayn’s cheek. “We’re going somewhere this weekend. Pack your bags—or bag, as it were.”

“My knapsack.” He laughs a bit, allowing Harry to curl into him. “What do I need to bring?”

“Just bring everything. You’ll probably be living out of my back pocket anyway, let’s be real here.”

Zayn’s throat goes white-hot. “Sorry.”

“You should be, seeing you in my clothes is criminal. I hate how pretty you are.”

The fire eases, just a bit. A bit. “No you don’t.”

“No. I don’t.” The grin Harry gives him is blinding, his teeth somehow flashing in the low morning light.

 

 

They fuck in the shower before shoving Zayn’s meager possessions into his bag. Harry, of course, spends time folding his own belongings and tucking multiple dime bags into a ridiculous leather satchel, sticking his journal on top of everything.

Immediately after they step out of Harry’s apartment building, a Town Car whispers up to the sidewalk. Zayn snorts but lets Harry take his hand and pull him into the back seat of the idling vehicle.

“I’m not even sure I want to know,” Zayn mutters, falling back against the leather. He drops his bag by his feet as Harry does the same. He glances at the driver, who likely doesn’t give two shits about the dumb boys in the back seat. He carefully clambers astride Harry, setting one leg on either side of Harry’s hips. He tips Harry’s chin back with one finger and prods one of his dimples with another. “You kidnapping me here, Slim?”

“You’re not a kid.”

“So you’re, like, napping me.”

“Not super interested in sleeping under you like this.” Harry smirks slightly as his own lame pun before sliding his hands across Zayn’s hips to cup his ass.

“We going to Atlantic City?”

“No.”

“Are we gonna jump into the Hudson?”

“Not unless we want to get syphilis and four kinds of herpes.”

“Then where are we going?”

“Just enjoy the ride, please.”

Zayn exhales sharply. “And what ride is that?” he asks, grinding down a bit onto Harry’s pelvis.

“I think maybe, baby, that you already know.”

***

Zayn disentangles himself from a sex-haze as they slow to a stop outside a white-walled mansion. The car comes to rest in a gravel-filled courtyard surrounded by a copse of trees. “Of course.”

“Don’t judge,” Harry chastises casually, moving his long limbs so they can move their way out of the car. “The—she’s quite nice, Z. I promise.”

“I know.” Zayn gets out of the car and tries to set his expectations accordingly. He fails.

“You don’t know,” Harry insists, voice earnest and raw. “She’s kind.”

“Your sugar mama is kind? I’d hope so.” Zayn casts an unkind glance to the mansion set before him, eyes shuttered. “She’s got good taste, though.”

“Obviously.” Harry grins once, hard, before shutting it down. “You don’t even have to see her. If you don’t want.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I just—it’s just.”

“You’re gonna have fun. I promise.”

“Blow me in a Jacuzzi, on a balcony, or on the beach.”

“Done.”

And Zayn nearly says _I love you,_ nearly says the worst words ever, the last thing he ought to think. He nearly does it.

Instead he says, “You’re the best, and also a strange hipster.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for letting me ride your dick in the back of a Town Car?” Zayn begins, unsure, his voice tentative.

“Dude, I’m not looking for a significant statement about this. Or a thank-you card. I just was looking to make sure you’re okay. Being here. Doing this, with me, somewhere new.”

Zayn bites his bottom lip. “Well then. I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

“I don’t know you here. I only know you there.”

Harry frowns. He looks like someone’s concerned father, like he’s worried someone hasn’t finished eating their vegetables. For a drug dealer, he looks surprisingly adorable. Fatherly. For a criminal, he’s cute. “I’m myself anywhere.”

“Are you? I’m not.”

Harry exhales sharply. “You are too, though.”

Zayn runs his tongue over his top teeth.

“You are, love. You’re the same everywhere. Flustered and prickly and posturing, you know, Beautiful and so, so dumb.”

“I’m not dumb!”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“I think I love you a bit.”

“You _fucking_ don’t,” Zayn insists loudly, instantly, his throat tightening up hard.

“You’re all right,” Harry concedes next, cheeks dimpling slightly.

“I’m not.”

“No. You’re not all right.”

Zayn closes his eyes and falls away from Harry, breath caught up in his chest.

“You’re lovely.”

“Shut up.”

***

They set their things in a large guest room—one done in cream walls and a lush bed with an attached en-suite—and immediately change into swim gear, heading down to the outdoor pool.

“I’d have thought you’re the type to swim naked, H,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes, because, generally? He knows.

“Oh, I am.”

“And? Not going to let me have the pleasure of voyeurism?”

“You want to see my flaccid cock?” Harry quirks a brow, the movement changing the shape of his face so it’s unrecognizable from the moment before. That’s one of the strange things about Harry, Zayn realizes—he can look wildly, drastically different from one moment to another. He thinks he finds it endearing.

So he shrugs. “Don’t much care. Do whatever makes you the most comfortable, really.”

Harry’s brows flatten, again changing his face. He licks his lips hard, folding them deep inside his mouth. “I’m okay for now.”

Zayn shrugs. “Just so you know, I don’t know how to swim and will definitely be sticking to the shallow end.”

The looks Harry gives him is close to pitying, and for a moment Zayn hates him. But then his face clears. “Oh, okay.”

“Oh, okay?” Zayn echoes. “Not going to offer to teach me to be an Olympic swimmer or something?”

Harry shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Liam almost went to the Olympics, did you know? For running! How weird, right? He’s such a bizarre person.”

Zayn _feels_ himself blanche. “If you say so,” he stutters out, following Harry blindly onto the back patio.

Harry turns back to grin at him, moss-green eyes bright and wide. “That doesn’t get old, you know.”

“What doesn’t?” Zayn askes peevishly, knowing he’s being peevish.

“The possessiveness. Even if it’s entirely unwarranted.”

“It—I.” He falls silent. It _is_ unwarranted, and Zayn feels like a selfish prick, but he doesn’t know how to fight his demons when his demons have their hands around his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t. And the sun doesn’t rise in the east, and I didn’t know, from the first moment I saw you, that I would be taking you home.”

Zayn frowns, narrowing his eyes. “You think you’re so clever.”

“I am clever.”

“You think you’re so funny!”

“I am funny.”

“The only way you’re superior than me is that you know how to swim.”

“Who said I know how to swim?” Harry calls, breaking into a sprint before leaping into a cannonball and splashing into the pool.

Zayn’s heart stops.

But then Harry surfaces, spluttering and looking like a cartoon character, shaking out his hair. “Only joking.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me most.” He flings his hair about, dripping water onto his broad shoulders. He’s golden and just a bit miraculous. “Now get in here! Shallow end or not.”

“If I go in the shallow end, will you quote Proust and Foucault and the Brontes, to convince me I’m still secretly deep?”

“I’ll expound on Rilke and Nin and Plath and anything else you want. Just get in the water, love. Just come here with me.”

“Siken?”

“Just tell me who you love, and I think I’ll love them too.” Harry throws himself backwards into the chlorinated water, a child of the stupid, goddamn earth if ever there were one.

“Okay.” _Thank you for making me feel normal,_ he doesn’t say. He walks to the side of the pool and sits down, dangling his feet into the tepid water. “This feels nice,” he admits, kicking out gently at Harry.

“I know it does.” Harry rolls his shoulders and knocks his head about, looking like a hippie tree-dweller and also a millionaire. “Come in here with me? It’s warm.”

Zayn sighs, easing his way into the pool, slipping soundlessly into the temperate water. “I don’t hate this, you know.”

“Meaning, you’re having a marvelous time and I’m the best treasure in the world?”

“More or less.” Zayn bites his bottom lip, shrugging. “Not good at things. Things like this.”

“Things like what? Swimming?”

“Talking.”

“You’re doing all right. Think I can tease some things out of you if I need to. When I need to.”

“You don’t—need to. Sorry.”

“You’re fine. If you apologize one more time, I’ll smack you across the mouth.”

“Promise?”

“Yes,” Harry snaps, eyes shuttering for just a moment.

Zayn’s lips quirk up. “In that case. I’m so, so deferentially sorry.”

Harry walks to him, slowed by the water surrounding them. He lifts one huge, wet hand, raising a questioning brow to Zayn. Zayn nods and Harry cracks him four times across the cheek, whip-quick and hot. Only one blow hits his lip, but he doesn’t mind. He’s already half-hard in the water, white-hot from the palm to his skin.

“More?”

“Later.” Harry backs away slightly. “Immediate gratification isn’t much fun, you know?”

Zayn flushes. “Please?”

“Later, baby. I promise.” Harry licks his generous lips, top and bottom, before ducking back under the water. 

Zayn groans. “I’m hard,” he adds as Harry surfaces, shaking hair and water out of his eyes.

“You’re patient.”

“Not really, no.”

“You’ll wait,” Harry replies with a gentle shrug. “And that’s all.”

“I hate you.”

Harry licks his lips again. “I know you do.”

***

Harry cooks them food, an easy sort of pasta dish with chicken, garlic, and tomatoes. Zayn thumbs along Harry’s jaw as they set the table together, pokes in hard at the spot where Harry’s dimple sits. He hates himself, but he doesn’t hate Harry.

Harry pours them wine from the weird tiny fridge in the kitchen, white because of the chicken, apparently. Zayn is dry but smells a bit of chlorine, a bit of lavender soap from his shower. His hair is wet and going just, just slightly wavy, while Harry’s hair is full-blown curly. He looks beautiful. He is beautiful.

Harry dishes out some pasta into their dishes and glugs at his wine. “So the one party is tonight. Figured we’d get ready in a few hours and drive over, unless we want to pregame. Then we can cab it?”

“Who owns this house? The one we’re staying in.”

“Caroline.”

“Caroline what?”

“Flack. She’s in Europe, right now. I have a key.”

“I saw.”

Harry exhales very loudly. “If you’re mad at me, you should be overt about it.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

Harry sighs again. He twirls some pasta around his fork and eats it slowly, while Zayn (of course) watches. “You’re closed-off sometimes.”

“I am.”

“Do you want to be here?”

“Yes,” Zayn snaps, eyes low, gaze stuck on the table. “Yes, I do.”

“You’re always welcome where I am.”

Zayn chugs down his glass and digs into his food, silent for a good portion of their meal. He sees Harry shoot him vaguely amused glances, sees the pity and the warm glow. He hates it, a bit.

“I can’t,” Zayn eventually grits out. “This lifestyle is insane, you know? I can’t meaningfully pay into it. I can’t do this, be this. I’m not this, and I can’t pay you back for being here. None of this makes sense. You don’t make sense. I can’t figure you out.”

Harry’s nostrils flare and his eyes darken, instantaneously. “I’m not that mysterious a person, Z. And you don’t have to do shit for me, okay? You’re not, like, beholden to me or anything.”

“No one gives things away for free. The world doesn’t work that way. It just can’t. Can it?”

Harry sighs. “Stop thinking too hard. It gives you premature wrinkles, and you’re too pretty for that. And stop doubting my intentions, it’s hurting my feelings.” He says this lightly, but Zayn feels a tinge of truth behind the words, and his throat flares with heat.

“I have trust issues.”

“You have your panties in a bunch, is what you have. Which, if taken literally, would be hot, but because these are metaphorical panties, I’m not buying into it.”

“I’m feeling a little blindsided, is all. I find this very overwhelming.”

“Words and emotions. Good. Okay. Sure. So the idea of going to the party tonight, is that freaking you out?”

“Kind of.”

“Do you want to have a super-secret subtle signal saying _save me?”_

“Good alliteration. And yes. Please,” Zayn tacks on lamely.

“Okay, so just, like, rub your sternum with your fist in a circular motion or something. I don’t know. I don’t know sign language.”

Zayn huffs and rolls his eyes, but smiles a bit.

“And take a fucking Xanax before you give yourself a heart attack.” He thumbs along Zayn’s jaw gently, lingering on his bottom lip. “Stop torturing yourself. It’s not worth your time.”

“And you’re I’m worth yours? Time I mean.”

“Pretty sure.”

“Okay.”

“Now let’s wash up and get changed and set to drinking. We’ll take a cab.”

***  
Zayn lets Harry dress him, dusting him with eyeliner, dolling him up in tight gray skinny jeans and a black Henley. He waves a gray bandana in the air and presents it to Zayn regally. “Just a thought.”

“What does gray mean, again?”

“Bondage!” Harry says cheerfully.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that really sets my mind at ease, thanks for that.”

“It’s just an idea.”

“I’ll think about it.” Zayn folds the bandana carefully and ties it around his left wrist. “Do I get to dress you?”

“Make me pretty,” Harry requests, eyes bright and mischievous.

“You already are, you nut,” Zayn says even as he moves to the pile of things Harry has flung across the bed. He selects a tattered pair of skinnies and a semi-sheer floral top, sitting Harry down on the bed so he can button the shirt over Harry’s bare chest. Then he knee-walks his way behind him, collecting up his curly hair into a petite bun. “All set, once you get your jeans on.”

“Jeans? Where we’re going, we don’t need jeans.”

Zayn blinks, scrunching up his face a bit. “I don’t—that’s not—what?”

“It’s like a quote, like what, Back to the Future? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads?”

Zayn chokes on air. “Oh god. Oh my god, you are the worst. Get behind me, white devil.” He palms against Harry’s face, shoving him away lightly, letting Harry in, telling him he’s joking.

“Ooh, that’s a good movie, though,” Harry says against Zayn’s hand, lips pressing in.

Zayn rolls his eyes, feeling stupid and fond. “Do I look okay?” he asks, moving his hand back, setting it against his own bony hip.

Harry bites his bottom lip. “Thanks for letting me put makeup on you. You look really pretty.”

Zayn shoots out one arm and clasps Harry’s wrist tightly, grateful beyond words. Quirking his lips to the side, he says, “Whiskey and a waterback?”

Harry smiles so hard both his dimples pop. “Nothing better.”

***  
Zayn’s drunk, which he knows, and he’s kinda sweaty, with Harry’s hands all over his back and sides, lips slick on his neck.

They’re taking a _smoke break_ next to the pool in Lou T-something’s back seventy-billion acres, conveniently located by a goddamn beach. Zayn’s drunk enough to have lost his rein on hyperbole. The sun’s not totally set, so they’re standing in a middling twilight, soaking up each other and the last bit of warmth that the evening wants to offer.

Harry giggles dopily, pawing at Zayn’s midsection. Zayn’s back is aginast the exterior wall, gray bricks prickling his skin. He thinks he likes it, cheeks flushing warm.

They snorted something dusty-white off of Harry’s phone before even leaving for the party, before checking they had their wallets and a few condoms in their pockets. Even on a good day, Harry’s eyes show he’s not entirely grounded in reality, and tonight, he’s—flying. His eyes look like marbles, pupils huge and imposing on the light green irises that surround them. His smile is slow and goofy every time he looks from side to side, and Zayn is pretty sure he’s wondering whether anyone can tell he’s fucked up.

The answer is, yes, they can.

Harry snagged a bottle of icy champagne on their way out back, not that he did anything with it except force it into Zayn’s hand. Zayn saw him watch the column of his throat when he threw his head back, gulping down what probably amounted to a two-hundred-dollar chug of booze.

But eventually Zayn abandoned it for Harry, discarded it without another thought.

“You’re pretty,” Harry murmurs against Zayn’s cheek. “I like you. Want to keep you.”

“Who said I was going anywhere?”

Harry giggles again, eyes fluttering shut. “They always do.” He sighs contentedly. “M’thirsty.”

“No more champagne?”

“S’too sweet. Want something manly.” A quiet, self-acknowledging laugh rumbles through Harry’s chest.

“Something to put hair on your chest?”

“Already have hair on my chest.” He waves at himself vaguely, not making any real point as far as Zayn can tell.

“All right, sport, let’s see to that drink.”

They traipse into a semi-crowded sort-of sitting room, where few people are actually sitting. They’re lolling about or mingling, most clutching wine glasses or tumblers of liquor. Harry bambi-stumbles to a nearby bucket (bucket is the least-bougie way Zayn thinks of to describe the giant metal tub filled with French sodas, weird IPAs, and still-corked bottles of champagne) and yanks out two beers, handing one off before twisting his open.

“Darling!” a voice calls from behind Zayn’s back, making him startle, his unopened beer slick in his palm where it’s sweating slightly.

“Louise!” Harry crows in response, throwing his hands in the air to offer her a hug. She has wavy bleachy-blonde hair and an aggressively made-up face, rings on more of her fingers than not. Zayn gets it, a bit, he thinks, why Harry’s shown up here. Even as Zayn tries to look on with transcendant, godlike apathy, he gets it.

They’re fancy, and they’re weird, and they make Harry feel important.

He settles for impassive staring, watches Harry work himself up into an enthusiastic lather over their hostess, whose _live-in help_ have just “concocted the most divine gluten-free biscuit recipe, Harry, really.”

They murmur to one another as Zayn looks on, until Lou grabs gently at Harry’s elbow, tugging at the fabric. Zayn purses his lips, listening to her say, “This is darling on you, H, is this the YSL I got you last year? Oh, lovely, it is! Looks great on you.” She turns to Zayn after a moment, her one hand still touching Harry’s blousy top gently. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh! This is Zayn,” Harry cries, making a sweeping gesture in his general direction, nearly smacking Zayn in the face.

Zayn didn’t know he was standing so close to them. He makes an approximation of a smile, sticking out a hand to shake. “Thanks for having us.”

“Oh, Harry’s always welcome here. He knows that.” She gives a wan smile, or maybe Zayn just reads it as wan, because she shakes his hand readily enough. Until she gives him up-and-down elevator eyes, raising a brow at his appearance. “Zayn, you said?”

“Yep,” Harry agrees, popping the _p_ loudly. He smiles, because of course he does.

Zayn hates him just a bit., hating himself just a bit more.

“How did you two meet? Are you a student like H here?”

“Oh,” Zayn supplies lamely. “No, I’m not a student.”

“He’s a great artist, our Z. Way better than me. We met outside that one bar? The karaoke one?”

She snorts. “That little dive?”

Harry scowls, looking for a moment like a petulant child. “S’not a dive.”

Zayn opens his beer and takes a sip. “What do you do, then?” he asks, out of a desperate desire to change the subject.

“I design accessories and high-end cosmetics.” She bites at her bottom lip for a moment. “You should model for me sometime. I’m looking to move into menswear, dabble a little bit there.”

He nearly snorts beer out of his nose. “Okay.” He shrugs. “Um, bathroom?” He follows Harry’s wordless prompt down a well-lit hallway, ducking in the first open doorway. Thankfully, it is indeed a bathroom. He shuts the door behind himself and sits on the floor in front of the vanity housing the sink.

He fishes a pill and his wallet from his pocket and stands, casting a wild glance at his surroundings. He sets the pill on the counter and crushes it with the solid-metal soap dispenser before cutting it into two neat lines with his debit card.

After snorting them both through a crisp, rolled-tight twenty, he feels a bit better.

He finishes his beer and chucks the empty bottle in the trash before exiting the bathroom to find Harry deep in conversation with Lou, his arms flailing about wildly.

A deep, unknowable fondness fills Zayn as he watches for a few more seconds.

He feels more than sees someone sidle up next to him, someone wearing way too much pastel for Zayn’s taste. He looks a bit oily, hair disheveled. Zayn refuses to look at him fully, only peering at him from the corners of his eyes. “Pretty little thing, isn’t he? Had him a few months back for just under six. Think I could have you both for an even thousand?”

Zayn flushes and immediately goes cold. He doesn’t turn. “Not interested.”

“You seem interested. In him at least,” he amends, trying to knock elbows with Zayn.

“Not for sale,” Zayn insists in steely tones.

“And yet. You look like you could be bought, eh?”

And Zayn’s gone hot again, barbed wire fierce in his throat. “Get the fuck away from me before I kick your ass so hard I’ll be wearing you as a shoe for the rest of the year.”

The guy laughs, disbelieving. “Excuse me?”

“I will not excuse you. Step the fuck off me unless you want to get punched until you pass out,” Zayn hisses, still not looking at the guy head-on.

“Whatever.” The guy leaves silently, leaving Zayn with a sick feeling in his gut and a wide-eyed look from Harry, who’s just noticed his reappearance and the retreating figure wearing salmon.

Harry stalks over to him, still wide-eyed, face pale. “What did he say to you?” he spits out, lips pink-red against his wan face.

“Nothing important.”

Harry frowns, nostrils flaring. “What did you say to him?”

“That killing him would be a better use of my time than talking to him.”

Harry lunges forward, wrapping himself around Zayn tight-tight-tight, arms looping around his neck. “Don’t drink whatever he gave you. I need to get Lou to kick him out.”

“He didn’t give—”

“Seriously. And I’ll just be a second.” Harry plants a wet kiss on Zayn’s cheekbone and darts away, face drawn tight. Zayn doesn’t stick around to watch, instead heads back to the bathroom but leaves the door open. He sits on the closed toilet lid and puts his head in his hands, elbows set on his knees.

Within minutes Harry pets his hair, cooing gently, nonsensically—making Zayn look up. His eyes are wet. Nothing new. The clawing wire in his throat threatens to constrict his airway.

“Are you okay?” he whispers to Harry. “Will you ever be okay?”

Harry bites his own bottom lip. “Dunno. But I’m fine enough, I guess. Sometimes, like. when I’m with you.”

Zayn’s eyes shutter immediately. “I—I’m just—”

“You just?” Harry asks, knocking the door closed with one foot. “I’m listening.”

“So, just. Fucking sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Zayn stomps his foot, rubbing the heel of one hand against his eye socket so hard he sees stars. “I want to kill him.”

“You can’t, he’s gone. Lou kicked him out.”

“What’s his name?”

“John Doe.”

“What’s his SSN?”

“Zero.”

“I want to kill him.”

“You wouldn’t survive prison. You’d end up like—” Harry’s jaw snaps shut, eyes darkening.

“Like?”

“Me.”

“I like you.”

“You don’t need to be like me. To have had—things happen to you.”

“Against your will.”

“Against everyone’s will but his, really.”

“Babe.”

“I’m—I’m not gonna say I’m fine because that’s shit, but I’m better.”

“Better.”

“I don’t have nightmares about waking up with—I don’t have his nightmares anymore. I’m better. I exist, I’m still here. I have good people, good things happening. I’m not fine, but I’m okay.”

“You’re amazing,” Zayn says, voice small.

“I exist.”

“Your existence is amazing, and you’re amazing, and I want to bruise you, you know? Like to let you know I’m telling the truth. But, like.”

“I’m not breakable. I’m open to you. You’re not a—him. You’re not him.”

“Right, sure, but the—it’s that I want to tell you I’m here, I’m in this body next to you, that we’re real to one another. Your bruises, my bruises, something grounds me in all that. You touch me. You’re the very realest thing.”

Harry sighs, biting his lip. “But like. Sometimes I feel like I’m floating away.”

“Aren’t you, sometimes?” Zayn gives him a gentle smile. “Floating away?”

He blinks slowly, lazily. “Sometimes that’s all that feels good. Flying up high like that? Sounds weird.”

“You’re fine, H. You’re not weird. It’s gonna be all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my main tumblr: musiclily
> 
> my fandom-ish tumblr: littlebint  
> I just re-upped this second tumblr. Not sure why I did?
> 
> Comments are my lifeblood.


	7. Welcome to the Archives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And to think. I was going to post this last night but wanted to give it another read-through in the light of day.  
> Fuck.
> 
> And yet, this chapter is alarmingly apt, if the repeated breakdowns are anything to go by.
> 
> I'm so, so sorry for the shitty timing of this chapter. I do promise to keep writing this story, though.   
> Lots of love. xx
> 
> _“This is an embarrassment of riches, is what it is.”_
> 
> __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sad, and sympathetic, and hurting for him.  
> Zayn left. Poor guy.  
> What must he have been going through?  
> I'm bare-ass emoting here, for no fucking reason, because I basically just heard this news and can't deal.  
> So. Have this chapter, I guess.  
> Love you folks.  
> xx

They stay in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time, sharing lines and slicking their wet tongues in one another’s mouths. “Wanna fly together, baby? Pretty things for my pretty boy,” Harry murmurs, his huge palm flat on Zayn’s lower abs.

The words spike something hot in Zayn’s guts, scoring their way up Zayn’s throat. Instantly, seven-odd images flood Zayn’s brain, images of Harry trapped beneath a heavy gross man, of himself getting backhanded by his father, of the red-raw razormarks on a pretty girl’s arms, the look on the face of Danny and Ant’s mom when she heard that Ant was going to jail, of trackmarks and broken noses from the couple of days he slept on a wooden pallet in the alleyway, of Saf’s face when he packed his shit and left.

He starts breathing heavy, past flying and into free-falling, heart trip-stepping unsteadily. He’s heading for the ground face-first at this rate—hyperventilating and so, so sad.

He grabs Harry’s fist and rubs it on his chest, adding, “Can we go? We need to go. Please? I’m sorry.”

“What? Yes of course, we can, yes. Where—what just happened?”

Zayn gasps, inhaling sharply. “I have no idea.”

They wind their way back to the kitchen so Harry can say good-bye to—someone, and Zayn feels people’s gazes slither over him—sees raised eyebrows, hears _who’s the mutt?_ He doesn’t so much feel the tears pricking his eyes until Harry asks why he’s crying, and by then they’re getting into a called-up Town Car and Zayn feels fucked-out by life. Like life went in dry and didn’t even offer a reach-around. Zayn feels fucked raw by the entire universe.

So he circles one arm around Harry’s shoulder and sobs into Harry’s neck, leaking saltwater and tiny, stupid mewls.

Only when they’re getting dropped off does Zayn realize he’s muttering _sorry_ over and over again—and why is Harry comforting _him,_ when Harry was the one with a case, with a dog in this fight.

And here they are.

:::

Harry leads Zayn inside by the hand, his touch kitten-light and careful. The quiet Hamptons homestead sits dark around them, offering solace Zayn needs. The en-suite of the guest room they’re staying in (fucking in) has a tub both opulent and obscene—Harry starts the water and slowly peels off Zayn’s clothes, delicate and sweet.

“It hurts,” Zayn says, eyes falling shut.

“Sorry, babe, I didn’t—”

“No, not you. Everything else.” He scrabbles for Harry’s hands and plants them on his own sternum. He sighs deeply. “Sorry. I’m—you’re just so lovely. And they’re so cruel. The world is so, so cruel. I can’t—not feel it all, can’t not let it sit in my chest like a ball of wax, and it hurts.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“But it’s you—you’re beautiful, and you’re you you _you.”_

“I know.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Zayn crumples, collapsing against Harry’s body lazily like a ragdoll, lungs maybe collapsing too. Maybe.

Harry carefully shucks off his own clothes as Zayn leans against his shoulder, ducking away before ducking back in. And then they lean against one another, naked and skin-to-skin, waiting for the tub to fill.

Zayn wants to cut himself off at the knees some days, wants to let half his life go so he can just focus on _now-now-now._ But he’s—he’s here, and he’s sad, and Harry has a solid chest and big hands. And Zayn wants to be fine.

Eventually they get in the bath and settle into one another slowly, Harry ducking below the water to wet his curly hair. He lets Zayn rest against his chest as they both come down, coke running its way through their veins.

Zayn’s eyes flutter shut again and again, his neck settling stupidly onto Harry’s shoulder.

Of course they don’t fuck yet, but Zayn considers Harry might want to—and he starts crying again, quietly, staying still so that Harry can’t tell. Probably can’t tell.

Eventually the bathwater cools. Eventually their limbs meld into one another. Eventually Zayn stops crying.

:::

They move to bed slowly—leisurely? And Zayn dries Harry’s hair, lets their weird bullshit fall away for a moment.

“Thank you.”

“What?”

“Too big, some days. Shit is too big.”

“Okay.”

“H.”

“I agree with you, you know. But I can’t begin to figure out what to say.”

_say you love me,_ he thinks but doesn’t say. He doesn’t say a lot of things. He just—dries Harry’s hair.

:::

Sometimes Zayn thinks he’s a broken little boy, a tiny broken thing in a man’s body. It makes him feel strange and out-of-himself, makes him want to sit on the floor and cry. He knows what he looks like but no one else knows who he _is._

:::

Harry takes him to bed soon after they dry off carefully, seeing to one another’s slick skin. Zayn dabs at Harry’s joints and hollow crevices, poking his dimples.

They both are very, very stupid.

Harry sighs, biting his lip. “Sometimes I feel like I’m floating away.”

“Aren’t you, sometimes?” Zayn gives him a gentle smile. “Floating away?”

He blinks slowly, lazily. “Sometimes that’s all that feels good. Flying up high like that? Sounds weird.”

“You’re fine, H. You’re not weird. It’s gonna be all right.”

:::

Zayn’s forgotten how to sleep without a belly full of liquor so he wakes up frequently, twitches or jolts into awareness once or twice a night. He wakes up at three, and at four, and at five. He tries not to bug Harry, content to try to breathe through his full-body sadness whilst staring at the ceiling. What he can see of the ceiling, really, in the middle of the night. His stomach roils angrily and he scolds himself for not being able to sleep through his hangover-slash-comedown.

Harry slumbers on.

Zaryn slides out of bed carefully, moves to the kitchen to get himself water and maybe a drink. He chugs half a glass before gagging, tossing up bile and water into the sink. He maneuvers his way into the living room, balancing himself with one hand on the wall, and shakily falls onto the couch. His body shakes. 

Gray light starts to stream through the windows just as his vision fades to black.

:::

He wakes up clammy to a sharp poke in his chest, Harry looming over him looking worried. “You’re out here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to wake you tossing and turning.”

“I sleep like the dead. You know that.”

“Sorry.”

“No, hey. Don’t—apologize. It’s fine. Are you okay though? You look a little gray.”

“Yeah. Sure am.”

“The couch, though, babe? We’re in the Hamptons. Pick a door, it likely leads to a bedroom.”

“Or a sauna.”

“Oh, did you find—there _is_ a sauna,” he tacks on at Zayn’s incredulous look. “Shall we?” He puts out one hand. “Let’s shall.”

“Oh.” Zayn lets himself be hauled up and led downstairs, lets himself be led like a child, like a pretty little thing. But Harry doesn’t always _notice_ things, like the whiskey mishap or the fire in his throat. And maybe they aren’t okay. Maybe not.

They breach the basement with a loud laugh from Harry, his hair flouncing wildly. Zayn pivots on him, eyes flashing. “This is not okay.”

Harry sighs, rolling his eyes. “This, all of this, is perfectly fine.”

“This is an embarrassment of riches, is what it is.”

“And you’re reaping the benefit.”

“I feel weird.”

“Well, on the normal bell sort of curve, I’d say you are well above average—not just looks-wise, but kind of all over the board. ‘S’weird.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Zayn quotes, yanking hard at the collar of his ratty t-shirt. He takes a deep-deep-deep breath and turns to Harry. “Why are you the way you are?”

Harry purses his lips slightly. “Reckon I’m not normal either. Reckon no normal grown-up talks like this.”

“Reckon no normal _grown-up_ refers to himself as a grown-up.”

Harry snorts. “Come on. The sauna awaits.”

They patter into the closed-off room, Harry stopping in front of the door for a moment. He cranks random dials as Zayn rolls his eyes gently, fingering the hem of his still-ratty t-shirt. He presses one palm into the small of Harry’s back. “Too good, all in all.”

“Death makes angels of us all,” Harry mutters, stuttering away from Zayn’s touch. But then he turns, pulling at Zayn’s bangs and a shoulder, pulling him into his personal space.

And Zayn almost says _love you you you_ and _hate me me me_ but instead he lets his eyes fall shut, lets Harry tug him out of his clothes easily. He palms his way across Harry’s chest and back and ass and face and, while his throat burns, it burns to the point he can no longer speak. He plants both his thumbs on Harry’s collarbones and presses down hard enough to bruise.

:::

Zayn’s suffering from some unnamed malady after being submerged in a highly unnecessary level of steam. He chokes up, wants a toke and a fuck and a fucking Xanax, but he’s—agreed to be in a sauna, with the hottest and most ridiculous person he’s ever met. But then—but then they snort white like the sun won’t _ever_ stop shining, like they are the most beautiful things.

:::

And of course they fuck next, but not in the sauna like Zayn’s expecting—they stumble into a cushy bedroom, still naked, towels and clothes littered and forgotten. Because of course. Because _yes._

Zayn bends over the foot of the bed, ass high in the air, breath going short. Zayn’s pulse sounds in his ears, loud and heady and _right._ “Open me up?” he asks, nearly unable to breathe, planting his forearms on the bed. His fully-hard cock stutters a bit against the bedspread.

“Babe, I’d absolutely love to. Want—inside you, all the time, just always. Hate not to be,” Harry stumbles out, kneading a huge palm against one of Zayn’s asscheeks, working him open slightly—very slightly. Zayn keens, turning himself to lick at the corner of Harry’s lips, right at the seam.

They’re never going to die, Zayn knows, in this moment, he knows this. They’re never going to die.

Harry presses one thumb along Zayn’s rim, dry, not really any force behind it, and Zayn pants a bit, eyes clamped tight shut. He can’t fucking relax, can never seem to take a breath—and he’s been like that forever, holding himself stiff and separate, even from the people he wants. He _wants_ to want Harry, fuck, _does_ want Harry and yet—but then he keens when Harry presses into him, a little too dry and a little too rough. Then he retreats and full-body _spits_ onto Zayn’s crack before rubbing it artlessly with a thumb.

“Fucking _filthy,_ H.”

“Yeah, baby? You like it when I spit on you? Like it a little too much, you clenched so hard just now, love how responsive you are. So good for me, so pliant. Love you like this.”

Zayn’s brain fizzes , white-hot like a dying star, burning out fast and bright. _Love you like this._ Zayn keens again, at the implication, at the words, at everything happening forever.

Harry finds lube from somewhere, wherever he keeps things like his headscarves, his citrus fruits, and his giant cock. Zayn doesn’t ask, really, so much as Harry just sometimes tells him things.

Zayn thinks maybe he goes outside his body, for a bit.

“So pretty for me, such a pretty thing.” A pretty thing for the menagerie, Zayn thinks, from the spot he’s in way above the room. If he squints, he thinks he can see himself from a sparkly, sparkly distance, and—yes. He’s definitely high.

He laughs aloud, shunting his hips back onto Harry’s lube-covered finger. “Keep going. ‘S’good.”

Harry adds a second finger slowly, pumping in and out at a steady pace. Zayn nods, humming a bit, mostly to himself. This is good, this is grand. He is fine.

Harry dips down to add a tongue along with his two fingers, pressing in sloppily like he’s _not_ actively trying to kill Zayn—which, Zayn’s never taken him for a liar, but right now he’s questioning his judgment.

“More, more.”

“More?” Harry swipes a wide lick over Zayn’s rim before spitting on his fingers, mixing it with the lube already there.

“Everything you’ve got.”

Harry removes himself entirely, putting on a condom and slicking himself up, if what Zayn hears is anything to go by. Then he rams so hard into Zayn that they both scream with it, bodies flush and tight against one another, both white-hot and in anguish.

“Fuck me fuck me fuck me,” Zayn babbles, dropping forward onto his forearms, face sitting on the bones of his wrists.

“So good, so good for me, fucking Christ, I can’t take you on. You’re everything, every good thing.” Harry pistons his hips in and out of Zayn, cutting him raw and hot, splitting him apart. Zayn levers forward, his face still pressed firmly against his hands and wrists.

They _fuck_ quick and dirty, Harry dicking in and out of him like lightning, and he feels both fulfilled and deeply ridiculous until he keens again and starts to writhe forward, face pressed into the skin of his own arms. He chases friction with his hips, feeling baseless and unmoored until he can plant his pelvis onto the bedspread—sort of. It’s weird and awkward because everything Zayn does lately is weird and awkward but it’s somehow still working. Zayn blames it on or attributes it to Harry, solely.

They rock against one another for a few minutes, not really saying anything but nonsense and the word “pretty.” Zayn feels like a wrecked goddamn disaster, and he thinks he probably looks even worse.

He revels in it, rolling and snapping his hips in turn, as fire builds in his gut. Harry speeds up his rhythm, fucking forward faster and sharper, panting louder as their skin slaps together. Momentum builds until they both fall utterly silent except for angry-sounding grunts, which echo a bit off the walls.

After a few moments more, tension building so much that Zayn can barely contain himself, they both come, nearly simultaneously but loudly, each with a grunt-shout that sounds graceless in the quiet room.

Zayn’s vision goes hazy around the edges until he realizes he’s been holding his breath _again._ He heaves a sigh and swipes a hand over himself, where he’s made an awful mess.

“Filthy,” Harry mutters, with a bit of laughter in his voice, before he slips out and away to get a _warm washcloth_ because apparently that’s the kind of person Harry is.

 

Zayn doesn’t know what kind of person he himself is, when he stops to contemplate it. He knows actions speak louder or something, knows to show his love and not just speak it, but—how does one even _do_ that? How does one do that with terror gripping their stomach and fire hot in their throat? How does one do anything, really?

:::

Harry falls into a doze and really does sleep like the dead, so insomniac Zayn waders this stranger’s house aimlessly. He finds a guitar in a corner-office-style room, tunes it and plucks away at it for awhile, only falling silent when he hears Harry’s feet padding around. “In here!” Zayn calls, fingering an E-minor chord just as Harry enters the room.

“Pretty.”

“E minor.”

Harry hums, looking sleep-rumpled and very young. “I always wanted to learn, before—well. I meant to look into it, you know?”

“You’ve got time left.”

“Because I’m so old, right?” Harry shakes his head, making a grimace-sardonic face, before he crinkles out a smile. He falls gently to the floor and curls up into a ball. “Play me something.”

All Zayn really knows how to play are Scarborough Fair and the theme song to Love Boat, so he rolls with the classic. By the time he’s done, Harry is dozing again, curled around himself like a cat.

Zayn falls onto his back on the wooden floor, staring sightlessly at the white ceiling.

He’s ignored his phone for four days in favor of the sting in his nose and the off-center feeling in his lungs, in favor of wide eyes and spit-slick lips. He’s not sure he regrets it. He’s not totally sure _what_ to regret anymore.

He falls asleep and dreams of nothing.

:::

They eat dinner half-clothed and half-awake before Harry drags Zayn down to the beach to “stargaze.” He blathers on about light pollution until Zayn forces him silent with violent kissing. It’s barbaric but effective. And it makes Harry smile at him, fierce and wide, which makes Zayn feel grateful and also too big for his body, a bit. It’s not so unpleasant.

They suck down a six-pack each and Zayn teaches Harry a few guitar chords until he complains his fingertips hurt.

“Don’t want calluses like Kurt Cobain, then?”

“Not sure I want anything in common with him, truth be told.”

“Fair. Talented, though?” Zayn considers, question floating through the air.

“Never knew he was your taste. Bit nasally, I’d have thought. Whiney white guy.”

“Did you just call Kurt Cobain a _whiney white guy?”_

“Well.”

“Suicide by shotgun kind of exceeds _whiney,”_ Zayn points out.

“I know. I meant the first bit. Before that. Before the—dead bits.”

“Think there were always dead bits, really. Floating in his soul.” Zayn shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek rather than the outside of his lip because—his lips are too chapped already. They’re too hurt, and if he’s going to hurt himself, he wants to make sure no one sees.

:::

Zayn conveniently waits until he’s in the shower to have a mental breakdown. He’s long thought that the bathroom is ideal for these sorts of things, since the spray covers the sounds of random sobs, plus he finds warm water comforting. Plus it’s a bit of a cliché, crying in the shower, but it’s the kind of cliché he doesn’t hate.

Harry said he had to do a drop-off, so Zayn kissed him good-bye and smiled prettily, shrugging his way into one of Harry’s oversized t-shirts as the door shut.

And he promptly lost his shit.

He chucked a wine glass at the wall of the kitchen, staring sightlessly at the shards sitting shattered on the floor. Then he knocked over a chair for good measure, snorting once at his own futility and impotence.

Then he began stripping clothes and dropping them in a trail as he went to the bathroom.

And now here he is, sitting in a half-full bathtub beneath the spray, having been unable to decide between a bath and a shower. He looks down at himself, moving his fingers over yellowing bruises, over scratches and bitemarks and his own tattoos. He loses track of what are tears and what’s the shower water, and he’s got snot in his mouth. Considering he’s put a lot of gross shit in his mouth lately, he thinks it’s probably poetic justice.

He ducks his head so the water can course through his hair, so he can wash his filthy body and filthy mind, and—and he knows he’s gone too far up, is over-the-top as all get-out, and here he is. Alone.

 

Cold and alone is how Harry finds him, sitting in a full bath of tepid water, nostrils flared and hand clutching a beer. But Harry finds him and doesn’t say anything, just sticks a hand into the water. He purses his lips and turns the water on hot, letting the warmth disperse a bit before he attacks Zayn. He runs his fingers through Zayn’s hair, peppers his cheekbones with kisses, prods at his arms. He is artless and wordless with Zayn, taking stock of his slack body.

Zayn is not okay.

“Let me fix it.” Harry pets his cheek clumsily.

“Can’t, no—no one can,” Zayn croaks, trying to tuck himself against the opposite tub wall, away from Harry’s touch. “No, no.”

“Are you hurt, baby? Are you okay?”

“No, no.” He stops. “Not hurt. Not okay, just here.”

“What is it?”

Zayn gapes. “It.” His throat momentarily closes up, until—“It’s me.”

Harry heaves a sigh and nods. He quickly unbuttons his sheer top and drops it in the sink before thumbing open his jeans and toeing off his shoes. In silence. And then he nudges against Zayn’s shoulder so he can settle behind him in the tub, until he can curl himself around Zayn’s back and hips and neck, nosing into the spot behind his ear that’s probably his weak point.

Zayn keens wordlessly and sighs. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“What if I do.”

“You don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Do you?”

“N-no, I—” No. “I don’t.”

Harry tucks his legs on top of Zayn’s thighs and curls his hands onto Zayn’s biceps, making them—koalas, barnacles, something romantic, making them one being, a bit. It’s ridiculous.

And then Harry kneads at Zayn’s nipples, both, making him groan and tip his head back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Harry moves his hands to Zayn’s ribs, daring his fingers into the flesh between them, poking in hard. “No?”

“Uh-uh.”

Harry sighs. He backs his hands off. “I’ll hurt you.”

Zayn shrugs. “I’ll like it.”

Harry snorts. “No, like—as a reward. For telling me.”

Zayn tips forward, lurching out of Harry’s grasp so he can drown his face in the bathwater. He screams out nothing but bubbles and air.

Harry yanks him out eventually, forcing their bodies flush until Zayn stops—stops crying again. Apparently, again.

He runs his fingers insistently through Zayn’s wet hair, tugging along the locks hard. “There you go, you’re all right. Good boy. We’re all right now, we’re great. My good boy, always so pretty for me, aren’t you? You are.”

Zayn closes his eyes and leans into Harry’s open chest.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, my love? Can you tell me?”

Zayn shakes his head. “S-sorry.”

“That’s okay, no need to be sorry. As long as you know you’re okay now, always okay with me. This is okay.” He pulls Zayn’s hair into a knot and ties it back before pressing onto his shoulders, forcing him gently into the bathwater. Harry grabs an oversized bar of soap, running it across Zayn’s bruised chest. “Gentle with you, my good boy.”

“Don’t have to be.”

“Have to be sometimes, love. You know me.”

And it sounds like _surely you know that,_ sounds like _let me take care of you,_ sounds a bit like love, so much so that Zayn gives out another dry sob. It sounds like an admonishment, a parental chastisement. Zayn’s throat is roiling with heat, scorching his vocal chords and nostrils like fire.

“Hurts. Bad hurt,” Zayn tries to explain.

“What does?” Harry murmurs as he lathers soap against Zayn’s navel.

“Just, everything.”

“Oh, okay.”

Zayn feels Harry nod as he continues to soap up his chest and arms, slowly and soothingly. It feels incongruous with what Zayn’s used to—hard and fast and dirty, maybe even mean, and he’s a bit—undone by it all. He feels so beaten down.

“Love.”

“Yeah?” Harry responds quickly. “What is it, darling?”

“Bed. Take me to bed.”

Harry rinses off the suds before hoisting Zayn up carefully, arms around his waist and shoulders. He stands them both up and grabs one large towel for them both, dropping it around Zayn’s shoulders before shuffling to hug him, carefully. “My good boy.”

And Zayn wants to contradict him, to say _no I’m not_ but Harry’s still talking.

“Like you could set the whole world on fire just to let me watch, let me see something big and beautiful. You’re so much, you’re damn near everything,” he babbles, steering their clumsy bodies into the bedroom. He guides Zayn to the edge of the bed and tips him onto it gently before toweling away at the clinging water droplets on Zayn’s torso.

He puts Zayn back together in pieces, in fits and starts, once dragging a thumb along Zayn’s bottom lip, as if gauging him, sizing him up gently. “Can you come back? Back from oblivion?”

Zayn nods a little dreamily, crawling his way out of his metaphorical pit. 

“Take your time. Come back to me, love. You’re all right.” He fluffs at Zayn’s hair, removing it from the bun.

“M’better.”

“You are?”

“Almost, yeah.”

“You went away for a bit, didn’t you?” Harry gently guides him up the bed, against the headboard, crawling along behind him. “Somewhere scary.”

“Hated that.”

“Was it a bad trip, or subdrop, was I not—”

“No. It was just me. I’m what’s wrong with me. Just sat in a heap thinking about all the shitty things I’ve done and all the shit’s been done to me, and it was on a loop, an angry-sad loop inside my head.”

Harry hums soothingly, petting at Zayn’s face. “You’re back now, my good boy. You’re here with me.”

They stay quiet for nearly an hour, cuddled against one another until their bodies overheat a bit, skin-to-skin. Harry’s stomach grumbles, startling them both into laughter, prompting Harry to say, “Dinner?”

They dress slowly, pulling on jeans and hoodies, Zayn living inside of Harry’s pocket and going for something oversized and comfy. “Think I just had a bit of a breakdown,” Zayn mutters, staring down at his feet as he steps into a filthy pair of Vans.

“Think so, love, yeah.” Harry wraps himself around Zayn’s torso from behind, settling his hands on his hips. “C’mon. We’ll get you fed and happy and loved-up again. We’ll go out to dinner and then walk around, enjoy the weather. Yeah?”

Oh. “Okay, yeah.” Zayn nods unsteadily, leaning back against Harry.

For one moment, he’s not breaking apart.

:::

They drive to a small-ish Italian restaurant because Harry likes sangria and Zayn likes Harry, and anyway Harry’s driving them, so basically he’s in charge. Zayn still feels quiet and a bit fucked-out, even though they didn’t fuck, even though nothing happened. It feels like, a bit, like Harry’s taking care of him, and it’s something that Zayn never knew he needed.

And he doesn’t like needing things, or people, or anything at all.

But he relents, because he feels like shit and Harry leads him along by the hand, gently, tucking them into a small booth so they can sit across from one another and Zayn can watch Harry _glow._

He unwraps Zayn’s straw and sticks it in his water, gets him a piece of bread and pours him some olive oil before dusting it with parmesan. He overdoes it, but he’s glowing so much as he does it that Zayn doesn’t fucking mind.

“Just don’t cut my dinner for me, yeah?” he mutters, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

“You got gnocchi. You can fit each piece in your mouth as is, no cutting required,” Harry reasons slowly.

“Oh.” Zayn tips his head to one side, looking at his water glass. “You were going to offer until I said something, weren’t you?”

“Probably.” He shrugs easily, shoving an entire piece of bread into his giant mouth.

Zayn chuckles lightly, watching Harry watch him.

:::

Harry pays for the meal, and Zayn doesn’t protest this, for once, merely lets Harry take his hand and lead him from the restaurant. Instead of heading towards the car, Harry moves along the sidewalk to a cross-street, ambling along easily.

“You got some destination in mind, cowboy?”

“Maybe.”

Zayn shrugs. “Lead on.”

And so they walk along like that, Zayn tense but trusting, Harry eager and out to impress. That’s their _thing_ in a nutshell most days, and Zayn’s not going to complain. Not right now.

He lets Harry lead him around, lets them look casual and unbothered. They walk to an unassuming building and Zayn takes a deep breath when he sees the cross on the door.

“H?”

“I dunno, babe, if you—if you don’t want to, that’s fine, but I kind of. Find it comforting sometimes, to wander around.”

“Wander around a church.”

Harry bites his bottom lip. “Haven’t burst into flames yet, have I?”

“Haven’t you?” Harry sighs and rolls his eyes and practically drags Zayn forward. There’s a sort-of lobby or foyer type of space, full of religious statues and flanked by stained windows, littered with a few cushioned chairs. Zayn barely has time to observe before Harry moves to the main body of the church, between another set of doors. “What denomination is this, love?”

“Catholic.”

Zayn nods, making the sign of the cross over himself with his right hand. Harry’s eyes boggle at this, and Zayn shrugs. “I know things.”

“I know you do, babe.” He drops Zayn’s hand slowly, moving toward the altar. “They recently redid this one, you know? They added a bunch of marble, remodeled the sacristy.” He pauses, sighs. “Put in new windows. You know? They raised three million for it.”

Zayn swallows. “Oh?”

“From the parishioners, mostly, but not entirely.” Harry steps up the slick steps at the front of the church, moving towards the cloth-covered altar. “And it’s pretty, of course it is. It’s expensive and it’s pretty. But it’s not the place I grew up knowing. You know?”

“You grew up here?”

Harry shrugs. “It was the church my—my family went to. It’s different now.”

“It is pretty,” Zayn notes.

Harry grimaces horribly. “Sure. And different.” He ducks his head. “I used to come here, to find a quiet place, like, when they weren’t having mass? Which is kinda cliché of course, little Catholic boy, but it was—it was away from absolutely everyone. And I needed that more than anything.”

“That’s all right.”

“The stained glass is nice, right?”

“It is.” Zayn nods, moving up the steps to join Harry. “It really is, love.”

“I like Mary Magdelene, you know? Think she got a hard rap, just for like, loving Jesus. Women get a hard go of it, really. She was nice.”

“She was?” Zayn breathes. “Tell me.”

“She washed his feet with her hair, even. She was his friend. She was like the first to notice that he, what, resurrected? She fucking saw the empty tomb, you know? And-and how scary would that be? She loved him, she really did. And he loved her somehow, I think, but maybe not—” He stutters to a stop, his eyes falling shut.

“Love?”

“Maybe not the way she needed.”

“That’s—that’s okay sometimes.”

Harry shakes his head hard, eyelashes wet with tears. “Makes me sad. She deserved that love.”

“She knew, babe. She knew he loved her.”

Harry’s eyes fly open. “She did?”

“Of course she did, love. Yes, yes she did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: musiclily
> 
> fandom tumblr: littlebint


	8. Pretty Views

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His throat is raging like a bonfire and he can’t breathe with it, thinks he’s absolutely going to die like this. Right here.
> 
> They stay silent until the car pulls up outside Harry’s apartment, quiet and grave, alone together in the backseat. They stumble into the apartment with their hands clasped, a hysterical laugh caught at the back of Zayn’s throat, burning him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emotional devastation

The trip back to the city is quietly awkward—Zayn having barely given up all pretense of being even remotely healthy or okay, and Harry coked to the gills. After visiting the church, Zayn tried to get a coherent narrative out of him, about anything, about his childhood, his hometown, his family. But Harry’s eyes went stony and dark and he went on a tangent about how _Mary Magdalene’s reputation was slandered by women-hating men of the Catholic church who feared feminine power._

So.

Zayn sort of listened and sort of didn’t. He lit a couple of prayer candles and donated money to the little collection box by the rear entrance, Harry’s voice carrying throughout the empty church.

“So,” Zayn interrupted, putting his lighter back into his pocket. “What’s this place called?”

“Oh. St. Leo’s.”

“It’s nice.”

“Okay.”

“Why’d you bring me here, though? The real reason?”

Harry sighed. “I like the—majesty of it, but without the pretense of being holy, somehow? I’m flawed, deeply flawed, and being around a congregation so intent on looking, like, perfect? That infuriates me. I’m fine with the general—the spirituality thing,” he said with a shrug, lifting one hand to show the cross tattooed into the web of his hand, between one thumb and pointer finger. “Some of it’s nostalgia, some superstition—but it’s real to me. Regardless.” He lifted one of the chains around his neck and flicked it gently. “Good luck charm. Not that it’s ever _really_ helped. But hey.”

“But hey. If the reason I’m here is some misguided concept of Christian charity, I’m okay with it.”

Harry rolled his eyes and kissed the metal cross pendant. “Cute.”

“I know what I am.”

“You’re—are you religious?”

Zayn sighed. “Not really. More culturally inspired than, like. Spiritually moved or whatever. It’s how my household was, so it was easier to just go with it, comply to save the argument.”

“Sure. Same, in some ways. I guess. ‘S easier not to fight.” Harry cast his eyes down.

“Some things aren’t wroth fighting for.” Zayn bit the inside of his cheek so hard he started bleeding, a penny-flavored tang coating his tongue.

 

That night, they fell into bed easily, lazily, tired and emotionally spent. Harry rose early the next day and Zayn found him doing yoga in only a pair of black boxer-briefs. Naturally. 

“Eggs in the microwave, ‘f you want. Scrambled.”

“How long you been up?”

“Hour-ish.”

“So productive.”

Harry shrugged. “If I need to, I can sleep in the car on the way back to the city.”

“Guess I’ll just—well. I have nothing to pack. Actually.”

“Shower?”

Zayn reasoned he was nearly water-logged with all the showers, baths, and steams he’d been taking. Nonetheless, he cleaned himself and before he knew it, Harry was shuffling him into the idling car.

 

And, now, here they sit, fidgeting against one another: Harry unable to sit still, eyes glassy like marbles, Zayn silent and twitching. Zayn tries to prostrate himself on Harry’s lap, flattening himself out artlessly. Harry feels lumpy and jittery, and Zayn wants to crush him down so he’ll just _be still._

“Calm down, you wiggly devil.”

“No,” Harry whines, earning a sharp knee to his hip. “Maybe _you’re_ the devil.” He wriggles again.

“The devil is _definitely_ white.”

“Huh.” Harry stills underneath Zayn, finally. “Fair.”

Zayn sits up abruptly and slaps Harry across the cheek.

Harry coughs. “And that was because—”

“Wanted to, like. Mark you up a bit. Pink up your cheeks.”

“Weirdo.”

“It made you sit still for thirty seconds, all right?”

“And got me a little bit riled up at the same time, so a bit counterproductive, don’t you think?”

Zayn shrugs. “Can we smoke up back here? It won’t stink up the leather?”

“Zayn!”

“I’m making you wait, like a good little thing. Think you can do it? For me? Think you can wait for me to get my mouth on you, for a bit? Tease you up right?”

_“Fuck you.”_

Zayn palms Harry’s cock through his jeans as he watches him load a bowl, still lying halfway across Harry’s legs. He watches Harry’s eyelids flutter occasionally, watches his dark lashes gently touch his cheekbones like feathers. Harry’s long fingers poke into the piece, packing it with grace.

Sometimes, Harry is graceful.

But mostly he’s a fool with Zayn’s head in his lap, with Zayn’s face and hand and breath near his cock—and somehow he’s composed.

Zayn wonders what Harry might do if he, maybe maybe, curls up bodily in his lap, wraps around his bones and muscles and tucked in tight. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know Harry very well, at all, really. And that’s fine.

His throat is raging like a bonfire and he can’t breathe with it, thinks he’s absolutely going to die like this. Right here.

They stay silent until the car pulls up outside Harry’s apartment, quiet and grave, alone together in the backseat. They stumble into the apartment with their hands clasped, a hysterical laugh caught at the back of Zayn’s throat, burning him up.

:::

They collapse on the couch and smoke themselves into another haze. It takes awhile for Zayn to surface, cresting like a wave, coming up for air. He takes a deep breath and turns to lie down so he can burrow his face into Harry’s neck. He squeezes his eyes shut, can’t look at Harry full-on right now, can’t spend his energy marveling about what Harry’s like. So he just breathes in the warmth of Harry’s neck, the gentle heat coming off his skin. He thinks he might start to cry any minute. Maybe right now.

“Where’d you go?” Harry whispers, letting himself be used as a creature comfort.

“Dunno. Underwater, I guess. Sort of.”

“Come back to me. Back to the land of the living.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Now that he knows how it feels to wake up pressed flat against Harry’s chest, lips slick with saliva that Harry doesn’t mind, both their faces sleep-soft—he finds he can’t go back. To whatever, to anything, to the idea that he can someday go home again.

He’s just here. In this moment. Wildly engaged yet somehow miserable, hating himself for it, and he can’t figure out why. 

Except of course he can, so he shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a breath.

And then he’s fine.

:::

An hour later, he eats Harry out while Harry reads poetry, _literally reads him poetry._ Zayn laughs into Harry’s ass and comes untouched, almost, rutting up against the material of the fucking sofa they’re posted up on.

He makes Harry’s voice stutter on a line of Siken, and he smiles into Harry’s rim, tongue seated fully inside. And maybe it’s something like love.

 

Later, Zayn smokes three cigarettes in succession, naked on the couch, as he watches Harry dress for work. Given that dealers don’t have a uniform, he mostly just puts on the same clothes he wore before, while Zayn’s cock softens against his hip.

Harry yanks on Zayn’s hair and kisses his cheek before he ducks out of the apartment, full bag in tow.

Zayn stares at the ceiling until the cherry of his third cigarette burns his fingers, stubbing it out as he curses. After chucking the butt away, he sighs, getting off the couch to step into a pair of boxers and nothing else.

And he wanders, as usual, as he likes to do. He sits on the floor in Harry’s kitchen, cutting a Gala apple into slices because apparently Harry only keeps his home stocked in fruits rather than pasta or, like, lunch meat.

Sometimes Zayn wants to punch himself in the face.

He wanders again after eating, lazily scratching at his stomach, scratching at his hair. He considers shaving but rolls his eyes. He knows Harry likes him the way he is, at least enough to satisfy.

So he’s fine.

He’s fine as he keeps wandering, half-clothed and out of it, until he’s seated properly inside the closet of the guest room. It’s full of shiny shoes and stupid-looking blazers, like maybe Harry wanted to be fancy once upon a time, and it makes Zayn snort.

But then he’s grappling at heavy albums and old shoeboxes full of photos, and he’s looking at pictures of a woman who looks just like Harry but a generation older, and his throat goes cold. Then he sees the pictures of a beautiful girl not much older than Harry, and he starts to cry.

:::

When Harry comes back, Zayn is half dead to the world but he’s put things back generally where they belong, he thinks. Maybe. 

Or maybe he’s testing.

“You’re pretty,” Zayn mumbles as Harry straddles his hips, pinning him to the kitchen floor. Because of course he returned there, trying to—what, make himself eat? As if he eats.

Harry pops the top off a bottle of beer he already collected from the fridge, and he takes a long sip before carefully tipping it into Zayn’s mouth. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? You know?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Zayn nods, watching Harry suck on the beer.

“You made me call my mom.”

Harry tenses, setting the bottle down. His face closes off. “Okay.”

“When do you call yours?”

If it’s possible—if it’s fucking possible—Harry’s face closes off even more. “I don’t.”

“Oh.”

Harry clambers off of Zayn, picking up the bottle as he sways across the room. “I’ll, um. I’ve got to do something, yeah?” He stomps his way out of the apartment before Zayn can even stand, leaves Zayn lying on the kitchen floor like a fool.

:::

Harry doesn’t come back for three hours.

And naturally, when he does, Zayn’s back in the kitchen, but this time he’s got photos spread out, he’s got albums on the counters. He’s got music playing, and he’s smiling.

Harry smacks him across the face.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. “How dare you, how fucking—how fucking dare?” He stutters to a stop and collapses, sinking down so he’s crouched, hands coming up to cover his face.

“You’re all so pretty, babe,” Zayn murmurs, high, ignoring the hot print on his cheek. He sinks down, sitting across from Harry, whose face is still hidden. “You look just like them.”

“Looked.”

“Yeah. You’re all so pretty.”

Harry coughs out a dry sob, working his fists into his eye sockets hard. “They were,” he agrees, pulling his legs up so he can curl into an upright ball. “They were, they were.”

“You’re so pretty, love.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head hard, nearly toppling with the force of it. “Not like her. She’s—she was—not like her.” He starts crying in earnest, and Zayn tackles him gently, moves him into a cuddle on the kitchen floor, surrounded by photos and beer bottles and goddamn fucking citrus fruit.

:::

Harry slaps Zayn awake, their bodies stiff from falling asleep on the fucking kitchen floor. They’re both still functional and up for it, so they fuck hot-dirty-quick-heavy-fast, with Harry closing his eyes so he doesn’t need to see the photos spread around them.

Zayn closes his eyes for a different reason.

Harry cleans them up and slaps Zayn again for good measure.

Eventually Harry retreats to his bedroom, allowing Zayn to collect the family photos he probably had no business bringing out. He bundles them up and shoves them in the guest room.

Afterward, he grabs an eraser and gives his thighs friction burns so huge he scares himself. He has no idea how to tell Harry, no idea how to tell anyone.

:::

He calls Danny and shoots the shit, but his laughs come too slow.

“Talk to your mom, yeah?”

“What?”

“Or your dad.”

“D.”

“I mean. He’s really the one, yeah?”

“Probably.” Zayn shrugs, even though no one can see him.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve visited?”

“Course.”

“Thanks.”

“Duh.”

“How’s—”

“Fine, yeah, man. Out in two weeks!”

They expound on it for ages, Zayn trying to key into Danny’s excitement and enthusiasm about Ant getting out of jail, except nothing ignites him.

Except Harry.

:::

Zayn’s passed out in the guest room when Harry comes back, star-fished across the bed. He returned the albums and photos because he only wanted Harry to slap him sexually, not out of anger.

So.

So.

But Harry collapses on top of Zayn, ramming their hips together like an idiot so their bones jut painfully. Zayn grunts, making Harry laugh.

 _I love you_ neither of them say.

:::

Harry’s gone again the next time Zayn wakes up, but he’s left out some gauze and antibacterial ointment, set it on the side table next to the bed. Zayn covers up his legs and it’s metaphorical, like he’s covering up his heart.

Or his emotional wounds.

Zayn sighs and finds himself ridiculous.

He packs up a few things and heads to the gym, where he wraps his hands and hits the bag without gloves on, which is probably stupid. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t see Niall or Liam, doesn’t do anything besides _punch_ the same spot on the bag, over and over again. 

He reaches a kind of zen, or so he tells himself. He leaves after nearly two hours, his arms wrung out and tired as fuck.

He gets drunk alone on Harry’s good whiskey, has the self-control to put it in a glass like an adult should. He fiddles with his sketchpad but can’t seem to draw anything. Rather he stylizes out harsh words, dips his graphite in the whiskey and wets the page. His hands feel bruised from the gym but he powers through it mostly, lets everything roll off his shoulders as the drinks hit him.

They go straight to his gut, acrid and smoking.

He falls into a doze before Harry comes back, forgets what he’s written until he sees a kind of pitiful curiosity in Harry’s eyes. _missing part, baba, half a heart, cold night, posturing, pick a fight_

Harry’s tentative when he speaks, his voice cut-glass sharp but so, so quiet. “It’s gonna get better, right? We’re gonna get better someday?”

Zayn shrugs. “I’d say it’d be hard to get worse, but hey. I’ve been wrong before.”

Harry sighs and sits on the floor in front of Zayn, ostensibly organizing his bag. “Meeting you’s been like a fever dream, you know? Like any minute I expect to wake up to realize I’ve hallucinated you, made you up. And that will—that would devastate me.”

“I’m here. I’m right here. Real enough, anyway.”

“Not flying away?”

“Not today.”

Harry turns around and puts one hand to Zayn’s cheek, running a thumb over his bottom lip. He sighs again and stands up, claiming he’ll be right back after Zayn makes a noise of protest at the back of his throat.

But of course there’s no need to worry because this is Harry and all he’s done is to bring back more gauze and some medical tape and ointment. He carefully strips the bandages from Zayn’s skinny thighs, wincing when Zayn hisses in pain.

“Hey, gonna get a washcloth and some warm water too. Behave while I’m gone.”

“No idea what you mean.”

Harry just hums as he leaves the room again, coming back with a bowl of warm water and the rattiest but softest washcloth Zayn’s ever felt. It still hurts, though, when Harry douses his legs and cleans him up, when he applies more chilly ointment and wraps his wounds up again.

“Come to bed.”

:::

“I’m going for a run,” Harry announces, his big green eyes wider than normal, shiny and open and dark-lit. Manic.

“A run?”

“Yeah. I thought, like, a group thing tonight? Not a club or whatever. But. Drinks? Dancing? Buying out the shitty jukebox at whatever dive Louis insists on?”

“Your taste’s not first-class, you know. I saw the ABBA albums, okay. On _vinyl.”_

“You shut up.”

“No one needs ABBA on vinyl.”

_“I do.”_

Zayn snorts. “You have all your music on your tiny $500 phone, and you listen to it through those tiny fucking earbuds. Converting it from vinyl is unnecessary.”

Harry pauses, going remarkably still. “Tell me, Zayn. How am I supposed to spend my time?”

“Fuck if I know. Draw buff boys in the nude.”

“I’m _going_ for a _run.”_

“Who’s stopping you?”

Harry flicks Zayn in the nose and kisses his forehead. Then he sighs a bit. “Just don’t, um. Pull anything out of, like, the nooks and crannies of my life. While I’m gone.”

“Or your apartment. While you’re gone.” Zayn goes for a light tone, and his voice squeaks. He wonders if this is an ultimatum or a warning or a—threat. It must show on his face, this contemplating.

“Not like a—just, please? Not that stuff.”

“Yeah, of course. You know I didn’t mean anything by—I was super fucked, sorry, it won’t, like—”

“Yeah. Sure.” Harry shrugs. “Back in an hour. Make us smoothies for my return?”

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “I can try.”

“Fruit. Yogurt. Ice. Blender.”

“Tequila?”

“The rest is up to you, sure.”

“Deal.”

:::

Zayn isn’t good at instructions or incentives or threats. He’s good at pushing boundaries. So he pulls out the photos again. This time he looks at the backs and labels, chants _Anne and Gemma_ to himself, pulls out a marriage license for Anne and Robin—but doesn’t see photos of Robin. Assumes he’s alive, while the other two—while Harry’s—well.

Zayn puts the pictures away, but he doesn’t want to. He thinks he’s done a lot of things he hasn’t wanted to, and he’s also done a lot of wrong.

He calls his mom.

 

She must see his name on the screen, because she answers, “Hello, my jaan.” 

This time he doesn’t correct her. “How are you, ammi?” It rolls off his tongue easily, and he feels the distance that weeks can bring, that the hardening of the heart can offer his flayed sense of self.

“Beautiful as ever, and doing so well. And you, how are you, where are—”

“I’m okay, I’m good. The girls?”

“Dee’s got almost all A’s, we just got her midterms. Except chemistry, but, she’s working with a tutor she really likes? Um, Safaa’s been practicing for the squad, you know, the cheerleading stuff?” Her voice comes out pinched, panicked for a moment. Zayn holds his breath. “Um, um—how much time do you have? Because Wa—”

“I have awhile. It’s—okay.”

“You’re—you’re sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Oh, jaan. You’re the best.”

“I try.”

:::

Zayn attacks Harry when he gets back from his filthy run, strips him bare in the living room and swipes sweat down his thighs with both hands as he blows him. They shower together and Zayn stays silent.

They eat a languid lunch and Harry sits against the coffee table to measure out eighths, eyes bright and a beer just beside him.

Zayn wants to sketch him so he does, just brings out his paper and the nearest pencil he finds. Harry looks at him once, shooting a sharp glance, a look Zayn can read clearly: _I have measured you, I see you, I see right through you._

Zayn doesn’t think he can give that look back in kind, so he keeps his face blank, smudging the graphite into his page.

 

Later that night, they dress one another for the outing Harry insists on calling A Get-Together, the ponce that he is. But he lets Zayn put glitter on his eyelids and cheekbones, lets Zayn manhandle him into a pair of burgundy jeans and the only not-absolutely-sheer shirt Harry owns. Zayn sucks a dark hickey onto his shoulder as a thank-you for being his dressmaking doll.

Zayn shimmies his way into a huge black muscle tank, letting it fall over gray denim like it’s nothing at all. Harry gently finger-combs his hair into a tiny knot, and that’s it. They’re sorted.

They trek to a nearby bar and it’s a bit of a dive, but at least it’s not in fucking Bushwick. They shoulder their way in, Zayn rolling his eyes at another idiotic pun Harry’s whipped up. He adds it to the list of why he finds Harry ridiculous.

But then he sees something flash across Harry’s face, sees his smile turn from goofy to deadly, his charm gone high-octane. Zayn’s head swivels so he spies—Liam, in saggy jeans and Timberlands, looking like a hoodrat lumberjack, plaid flannel tied loosely around his waist.

Zayn clamps one hand down hard over Harry’s wrist, earning him a loud, pealing laugh for the trouble. “Oh,” Harry purrs at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, I like that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harry licks his top lip, just once, before yanking Zayn toward the table, toward his friends.

They slot easily next to Louis, who’s going on a tear about the _third of five times_ he was arrested for public exposure—“and this time it wasn’t even like my dick was out, it was just my ass, fucking A!”—and Zayn reminds himself to take a deep breath.

He looks around their knot, their little circle of beautiful people, and he’s startled to realize that he recognizes most of them, even if he doesn’t know all their names. He sees Liam and Louis, of course, they seem to come standard on divey nights like this, but he also sees Perrie and Jesy, sees Niall and some weird brunet guy even taller than Harry. They all kind of—hang off one another, which Zayn would have found weird before meeting Harry.

Because Zayn kind of hangs off Harry all the time, now. And Harry’s only too quick to slip his hands into Zayn’s back pockets, to twist the hair at the nape of Zayn’s neck. They orbit one another without leaving room enough for one breath of air.

They eventually pull chairs up and join the trivia team, apparently assembled only of Harry’s queer (literally) friends. Zayn rocks the literature and pop-culture questions, suggests _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and Deadpool equally.

It’s when he recommends _Edgar Allen Poe_ that Harry turns to him bodily, calls him _wise, clever, smart, beautiful._

Zayn stomps to the bathroom immediately, face hard, jaw set. He’s upset that it takes Harry so long to follow him—although he eventually does follow.

He’s sitting on the closed toilet, face in his hands, when Harry finds him. “I’m more than that,” Zayn spits, adding a sigh, trying to looking at anything but Harry.

“Than what?”

“Pretty.” He maybe looks up.

“Y-yeah. I know.” Harry inches forward, daring to touch Zayn’s knee with his own.

Zayn frowns and furrows his brow.

Harry sighs, backing away. “Seriously, fuck you. I know that I opened with, what, wise, smart, whatever-the-else—fuck you. Hey, like, fuck you.” 

“Stop.”

“No way. Fuck you.”

“Stop being nice to me!” Zayn screams, launching to his feet, slamming Harry to the bathroom door with two hands. And then they’re chest to chest, with Zayn’s hands pressed against Harry’s shoulders, and the tension is dire.

They kiss, hard and fast and just _once once once_ until Harry wrenches away and lurches out of the bathroom, yelling backward, “I’m mad at you!”

Zayn’s throat goes cold with fear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr: musiclily


	9. Meaner than Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Next chapter's already in the works.

Fear and something close to exhilaration fill up Zayn as he stalks after Harry, veins on fire. Rather than returning to their group, Harry is heading out a service door—one that leads into an alley.

“Hey, don’t run way from me!” Zayn calls as Harry slams the door shut in his face. Presumably he then leans against it, because Zayn struggles to shove it open after him. “Hey!”

The door gives way eventually and Zayn stumbles outside. Harry’s eyes catch the light from the streetlamps, and they blaze brightly. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. _You don’t get to.”_ He shoves at Zayn’s chest until they’re both backed up against the brick wall of the bar, Harry’s forearm pressed hard against Zayn’s pecs. “No one gets to talk to me like that.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Zayn splutters, losing his breath with each passing second. His vision swims, and there’s a mixture of arousal and terror just below his skin and it’s _so_ very heady that Zayn almost feels sick with it. “I’m sorry,” he tries again, feeling a few tears collect at the corner of his eye.

“No one, not even you.”

“No, of course not.” Zayn has no idea what he’s doing or saying, is really just babbling pretty phrases to get the dead-fury look off of Harry’s face.

“You don’t get to be mean to me.”

Here Zayn splutters again. “But I—I don’t know how to be nice.”

“Then don’t be anything at all.” Harry shoves him again, hard, so his shoulders slam against the brick.

“You’re hurting me.”

“I’m mad at you,” Harry growls, but he backs off.

“No, I mean—you’re hurting me and I _like_ it. I don’t do nice because I don’t know how.” He leans forward into Harry, forcing his chest into Harry’s forearm again. “And I don’t want you to be nice.”

“Fuck. I don’t need you to be nice or whatever, that’s clearly expecting too much,” Harry mutters. Zayn sets his jaw and tries to ignore the cutting remark, but it lodges at the back of his mind. “But you know what? Don’t ever talk to me like that.” Zayn isn’t sure if he hears a threat beneath that—a _I basically hold your life in my hands_ or _you’re living off my good fortune_ —but Harry has the grace not to voice it aloud.

“Then what the fuck do you even _want_ from me?” Zayn deadpans.

“Just shut the fuck up and look pretty,” Harry demands, shoving back into Zayn’s space and ducking down to kiss him filthy and slick.

Zayn snorts into the kiss but molds his body against Harry’s, their bones knocking together a bit awkwardly. Zayn snakes his arm around Harry’s back, and he presses his fingers into the dimples by Harry’s ass.

They mumble and hum into one another’s mouths, Zayn’s other hand fisting hard into the material of Harry’s top. He shoves his knee into Zayn’s thigh before slotting it neatly between his legs, pressing in close to writhe their bodies against one another. Zayn’s breath heaves, hot, in his chest, and he shoves at Harry for a moment. “Hold up. We’re doing this in an alley? Here?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “As opposed to what.”

“Literally anywhere else. Shit, the bathroom, even. I’m not blowing you in an alley.”

“I’m not blowing you inside that bar.” Harry huffs a breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “You disrespected me.”

Zayn narrows his eyes and backhand-slaps Harry on the cheek lightly. “Bar trauma? Fuck you, you’re more man than that. Get over it.”

Harry slaps Zayn’s face with his open palm, harder than Zayn’s prior force. “I’m not your fucking whore, you dick. So don’t play at this right now. I’m heading back in unless you can give me a reason to stay out here.”

Zayn shrugs.

“Fuck you.” Harry storms off, slamming the loading-zone door behind him.

Zayn sits down, hard, next to a dumpster, hitting it with the side of his fist repeatedly. Then he digs his half-filled cigarette packet from his pocket and smokes three in succession until his throat feels raw. He coughs once into his hand and stumbles to stand up, his head fuzzy. He blunders back into the bar and sits on Louis’ lap, grinning at him lazily.

He’s made worse decisions.

“Hi, kitten,” Louis murmurs at him, blinking slowly so his long lashes flutter. “How’re you feeling? Okay?”

“Perfect.” Zayn bites his bottom lip and drops his gaze, too. As ever, he knows what he looks like. He levers his eyes back up to look at Louis, who really is pretty—sharp like Zayn knows himself to be, with pink lips and feathery hair. He looks breakable.

“You need water?” Louis asks next, squeezing Zayn’s hip gently. “You can have some of mine.”

“Not sure that’s what I need, really,” Zayn replies, setting his cheek against Louis’ shoulder.

Louis chuckles. “Oh really, then.”

“Yeah.” Zayn puffs a small breath against Louis’ neck, rolling his hips against Louis’ small hands.

Louis snorts. “What’s this that you’re doing, eh? Quit playing.”

“M’not.”

Louis swallows hard, his posture hardening. “Stop fucking around,” he snarls quietly, shoving into Zayn’s hip with the hand still clutching it—but he doesn’t let him fall, keeps one hand around his waist. But regardless his face goes cold, eyes steely in a way Zayn never expected to see in his soft, golden face. Zayn backs away slightly, considering Louis—the bar is shadowy, but Louis’ face is noticeably closed-off now, eyes narrowed and jaw tense.

Zayn leans away farther and laughs, loudly, nearly falling out of Louis’ lap. “Christ, Lou. Fine, whatever you say.” Zayn steps away from their booth entirely, moving to the bar to get another drink. He orders whiskey with a beer chaser and waits impatiently, finger rubbing against the edge of a twenty-dollar bill. Then he shudders when he feels someone approach him on his left, and he sighs heavily when he sees that it’s Liam at his side.

“Thirsting a little hard, aren’t you? Our Harold not laying it right these days?” Liam says with a sneer.

“What’s it to you?”

Liam shrugs. “Nothing, just saw you lapping at Louis’ ear, and we all know he’s basically _married.”_

Zayn scrunches his face. “What?”

“Him and Nick—whatever, you just look desperate as shit, is all.”

“As opposed to you. Now. Telling me off because you’re thirsty.”

“Thirsty? How so?” Liam wrinkles his brow and leans on the bar so his biceps and triceps flex.

“For—for Harry, obviously.”

“Shit, you think _that’s_ what this is about?” Liam tips his head to one side and laughs loudly. “You’re so off the mark. But keep thinking it if you want.” Liam shakes his head and chuckles again. “Drink up, think you’ll be in for a long night.” He shakes his head one last time and leaves the bar without another word to anyone.

Zayn swallows his shot fast and takes his beer back to the table, standing rather than sitting in anyone’s lap. He stays silent for a bit, noting the way the lights have gone hazy and his vision has gone into tunnel-mode. His body thrums through like a taut wire, though, and he can’t quite relax into it all—can’t feel solid at all, instead feels wrung-out like a rag. He’s full of metaphors and similes and not much else.

He tunes in to tiny touches and covert glances so much so that he doesn’t notice at first, not right way.

Eventually he’s choked down his beer and two more shots, watching the way Harry is fairly pointedly ignoring him, so he’s alone at the head of the table when he completely loses _all_ his shit.

Zayn spies _him_ walking into the door and dives back into the bathroom, breathing hard. Not having seen Shahid for months, Zayn was unprepared to see him _here._ But his life is nothing if it’s not incomprehensibly stupid, so be it.

He waits for his pulse to fall just below one-hundred beats per minute, and then he slowly opens the door to peer out, feeling foolishly like a cartoon character in a whodunit. The bar is crowded enough that he feels he has acceptable cover to dart back to their table.

If it can be called _their_ table, really, given that the entire group either snubs him or gives him vaguely pitying looks when he gets there.

 _“Gotta go,”_ he barks, grappling quickly at Harry’s shoulder, trying to communicate his panic through his facial expression.

“Bathroom’s the other way, bro,” Louis says with a sharp smirk.

“I mean _leave._ Leave here. Now.” Zayn feels himself go wide-eyed as Harry furrows his brows.

“Wh—” he begins, opening up his shoulders and spinning his head around in one movement.

“No time. _Please.”_

Part of Zayn—shamefully, a large part—expects Harry to simply hand off a key and leave him to it, but Harry shrugs and unfolds his legs, getting to his feet easily enough. Granted, he takes his time saying good-bye to everyone, making Zayn sweat—but eventually they book it out of the bar.

“What the actual fuck?” Harry mutters, hailing them a cab. “You gonna tell me or make me guess?”

“Fuck, like you’re one to talk about secrets,” Zayn spits, ducking down into the cab and pulling Harry in after. “Don’t even.”

“You’re telling me,” Harry says, jaw set, cheeks taut over his cheekbones. “Or I’m withholding sex.”

“Such a threat, Christ.” Zayn rolls his eyes and gives the cabbie their address— _their_ address, fuck.

“And drugs.”

Zayn huffs heavily and shunts himself into the corner of the seat. He pointedly looks out the window and ignores Harry, just the way he felt ignored before, because he’s grown up with sisters and all that implies. Because he’s petty.

But just for a few minutes, because he’s also desperate.

“Look, if you’re gonna kick me out of whatever, just do—”

 _“What?”_ Harry bodily slaps Zayn’s chest with his open palm, immediately looking apologetic. “I’m not kicking you out.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m _mad,_ not _insane!”_ Harry scrubs a hand over his face and suddenly looks—weary. Ages-old. “God. What do you even think I am?”

“I’m. Um.” Zayn sighs. “I’ve been kicked out of my house three times. Like. Love’s conditional in my world. Not that—”

“God, Z, I’m _mad_ at you but I still fucking _love_ you. What the fuck.” Harry pulls at Zayn’s hands, gripping them hard in his own. “What the fuck?” he repeats.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn stammers, tightening his fingers around Harry’s hands in return. “I’m sorry.”

Harry sighs heavily. “For what, Z. For what?”

“For not telling you sooner, too. That I love you too.”

“Fuck you.” Harry yanks one hand away and lightly slaps at Zayn’s sternum. “Who the fuck were you avoiding back there? And what’d you fucking _do?”_

“Fuck you, what makes you think I did something?”

“I know you. What did you do?” Harry asks, voice void of emotion.

Zayn runs his tongue over his top teeth, inhaling slowly. “He was—harassing this friend of mine, basically, or whatever, just being a dick, and I didn’t know he’s—essentially an initiate into the Princes, or was at the time. I called the cops on him just because he was pissing me off so much and I also told my cousin about it—which, surprise, he’s a higher-up Killer, and it—he got both jumped and arrested, all within a week I guess, and he made a huge thing of it. I just don’t want him to fucking _kill_ me. He sells stolen arms and shit, and I just—fuck no. No.”

Harry worries at his bottom lip with his top teeth. “That’s—fine. Yeah. Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“That’s fucking _fine.”_

They go the rest of the way in silence, Zayn following along behind Harry like a kicked dog when they get out of the cab. Even the two blocks to the front door is a journey both awkward and panic-attack-inducing for Zayn. He keeps looking over his shoulder and also looking at Harry to make sure they’re keeping an even pace. He’s not entirely sober enough for this talk or the short walk, or any walk really, but that realistically could describe any day since he and Harry met. So, even keel or something. His brain won’t work right, but it works just well enough to tell him he’s pretty much fucked. Mostly.

But if there’s two things he can do it’s suck dick and suck up, so he speeds his pace up a bit to try to grab Harry’s wrist—and ends up clasping his hand instead. Harry startles but allows Zayn to clutch at him, and Zayn feels his eyes water involuntarily. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

“Being—disrespectful?” he ventures slowly, scrunching up his face.

Harry sighs again. Again with the sighing. “It’s a start.”

They continue on in silence until they get to Harry’s apartment, where Harry fishes his keys from his pocket and detaches from Zayn before throwing the ring at him. “I made you copies, by the way.”

“You what?”

Harry shrugs and pulls another set of keys from his impossibly slender jeans, moving to unlock the door into the lobby. Zayn trails along behind him, once again feeling lost.

“I could rob you blind.”

“You’d’ve done that already,” Harry points out as they climb the stairs.

“What if I trash the place?”

“You’ll probably clean it up,” he says, shrugging again.

“And if I don’t?”

“Just shut up, okay? I’m not in the mood for this.” He shoves his shoulder bodily into the door of the apartment as he unlocks it, not looking back to see if Zayn is following him.

But Zayn does follow him, enters the apartment to see Harry sitting on the floor by the coffee table, packing a bowl.

Zayn bypasses the sofa and heads to the bathroom to start the shower. He figures he might as well end this breakdown right.

:::

He sleeps in the guest room that night; or tries to sleep, rather. Mostly he has a silent anxiety attack and stares at the ceiling. Somewhere around four a.m., he gets up and opens the window so he can chain-smoke until the sun rises. Harry slips into the room just before six, and Zayn’s become so accustomed to his presence that he doesn’t even spook.

“I am sorry, you know,” Zayn murmurs, ashing his cigarette into a misshapen votive that Harry likely handmade and glazed himself. “Did you sculpt this yourself?” he asks, holding up the vase-cum-ashtray.

“No. Gift from a friend.” Harry heaves out a creaky sigh and sits on the floor, curling his legs around himself like a cat.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to compliment it. It’s kind of ugly.”

“Relegated to the guestroom with the rest of the stuff you’d rather not look at.”

 _“You_ chose to sleep in here.”

“Who sleeps?” Zayns asks carelessly, swinging away from the windowsill to get back into bed.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Harry rolls his eyes—Zayn can see it plainly, even though the lights aren’t on. Harry’s eyes are just kind of _like that._ It makes Zayn want to throw the ashtray at him. Zayn maybe wants to do that more than not lately, problematically. And he wants to be hit in return. Harry sighs again. “I’m not mad anymore, you know.”

“Because I apologized?”

“Time heals, etc., etc.”

“Does it?”

Harry shrugs and unfolds himself so he can stand, slowly, while Zayn watches. “I don’t know, really.” He knee-walks onto the bed towards where Zayn’s already splayed out. “Can I try something?”

“Go ahead, big man.” He watches with only mild curiosity as Harry bites his lip once, hard, before slapping Zayn’s sternum through his t-shirt, hard enough and on-point enough to make Zayn gasp.

He does that, all over Zayn’s body, for almost forty minutes, until they both come from writhing against one another’s thighs, rutting like they’re young.

:::

Later that week, they're sitting languidly in the living room-cum-Harry's workspace, Zayn smoking a spliff and Harry trying to _capture his angles properly_ for his next school project. The stereo is mutedly playing Tom Waits, the rasp of his voice accompanying the tone of the book Zayn's trying to read. It came highly recommended from his sister last time she spoke to him, months and months ago, and she suggested lightly that it might help him _put some things into perspective._

It's about an Olympic track runner who got drafted during World War II, and Zayn's just reached the part of the biography where the guy’s plane goes down, violently, into the ocean. Saf's perhaps getting a little ham-fisted in her _hints,_ but the book is a decent read for when he's feeling itchy for something more.

He listens a bit to Harry's scratching away, watches him switch from graphite to his watercolor pencils, dipping them into a fizzed-out and abandoned bottle of beer. "Not sure that's the best medium for a drawing, is it?"

"Of you, it is."

Zayn rolls his eyes. "I have no idea what you're implying."

"Sure you don't."

Zayn's stomach growls but he doesn't make any move to the kitchen, just continues smoking until the blunt's cherry hits his fingers. He drops it into the ashtray and sets his book down, dog-earing the page to return to later. He hums along to the music, Waits crooning something like _telling my troubles to strangers, when the shadows get long I'll be dead._

"How long have you lived in this place?" he murmurs, stretching a bit but not moving much, so as not to fuck with Harry's drawing.

"Couple years. Had the funds for it, after what happened." Harry sets his jaw, dipping an indigo pencil in the tepid beer. "Insurance payout."

"Shit, H." Zayn, drawing be damned, scrambles to his feet and drapes an arm around Harry's back, curling their bodies together. "I didn't mean anything by it, fuck, sorry."

"It's the truth."

"What about—I mean, you lived here all alone since then?" He's trying not to ask about Harry's father, but doesn't know how to side-step the topic tidily. He bites at the inside of his cheek.

"I don't like living alone, I told you. Friends always crash here, or I crash with them. Plus it's easier to move around and do whatever I want now that I'm legal and high school's over. I don't have child protective services or obnoxious teachers snooping around me anymore, do I?" Harry laughs once, sharp and self-deprecating.

"CPS, really?"

"No stranger to the system."

"Well, we all get ferreted out one way or the other. Prison or foster or gangs or any of the rest of it. It's probably best that you managed to stay out of that shit." Zayn feels a white-hot coal setting behind his breastbone, and he has no idea how to ignore it.

"For now." Harry shrugs, rubbing one hand over his eyes. Up close, Zayn can see through the translucent skin underneath Harry's eyes, sees the purpling of the blood beneath the surface.

"Most people aren't cut out for prison, H."

"Most people aren't coke dealers."

And, sure, that’s a fact, but it’s also—it’s also not the whole story. About Harry or anything else.

"You're better off than most. Pretty boy, decent upbringing, smooth talker. White." Zayn detaches from Harry's lap, walking around the coffee table to gather up the detritus he managed to deposit around himself while he was reading—cigarette butts that missed the ashtray, a glass for whiskey, his cracked cellphone, and a discarded beanie. He's a mess.

"Yeah, suppose so. Wonder if I can talk my way into probation when I get caught?"

"Reckon you could suck up good, eh?" Zayn smirks hard before miming obscenely, as if he's gagging on a cock. He wishes, at this moment, that they could fuck rather than talk. And yet.

"Class act, you are," Harry replies, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever. You got any drop-offs to do this afternoon? What's the agenda?"

"Nah, Liam's coming over later so we can work on this assignment together."

"Really? Haven't gotten your fill of drawing me, is it?"

Harry clucks his tongue. "Look, you're very beautiful, but there _are_ other people in the world, most of whom don't look like you."

"There are other people in the world?"

"Yes, and I need practice drawing them, too, if I'm to be a well-rounded artist of any renown."

"Hm." Zayn hums. "All right, I'll vacate."

Harry snorts.

"No, I just--need some fresh hair. I'm itching out of my skin."

"Buzzing? Yeah, all right. Hey, will you stop by the grocery on the way back? We're entirely out of, like, everything."

"Beer and frozen pizza, got it." Zayn salutes, collecting his phone and the beanie, just barely remembering to pocket the keys Harry made him.

"For the love of god, Z, get something green this time. One thing. That's all I'm asking."

"Bell peppers."

"It'd be an improvement. Sure."

Just before ducking out the door, he remembers to snag a pair of earbuds from the bookshelf that has no organization scheme whatsoever that he can discern. His phone is fucked, but it still plays music, on most days. He puts it on shuffle and laughs a bit when the soundtrack to the third Harry Potter movie plays through the headphones. Safaa's doing, most likely.

He bounds down the stairs, managing to leave the building without running into Liam. He flicks through the music on his phone, squinting down at the cracked screen. He eventually stops on Drake, shoving both earbuds into his ears more stably. He hasn't got a destination in mind, really, just needed to get outdoors and away from even the possibility of interacting with Liam.

After about twenty minutes, he finds a small park, really just big enough for a baseball diamond, some bleachers, and a few trees. He climbs into a sturdy enough oak, or maybe maple, and leans against the trunk, only about five feet off the ground. He ignores the music completely, instead trying to key into the feeling of the wind on his face, of the uncomfortable feeling of the gnarled bark beneath his shoulders. His chin itches, since he hasn't shaved lately, and the friction burns on his thighs aren't actually all that healed yet. Overall, he's kind of—uncomfortable. All around uncomfortable.

Which is an apt description for most of his life, really, and it's likely the reason he goes around so punch-drunk, falling into things headlong and reckless. He is just constantly a little bit (or _a lot_ more than a bit) just fucking dissatisfied and discomfited. He can't remember if he was always like this or if it coincided with something tragic. He thinks probably it was gradual, so creepingly gradual that he just—never noticed.

Until he did, just like he noticed his fist in someone's face and how that could feel _good._

This discovery should have been unsettling, but it was actually a kind of relief. And Zayn was all too ready to feel a little relief.

He considers this, considers his own tendency to be single-minded. He's a bit all-or-nothing, balls to the wall or crouching in the corner. It gives him a sickening sense of pride, even, to be so—severe. Noticeable like a hurricane. Hurricane Zayn.

He snorts quietly and starts pulling leaves off of the branches around him, shredding them before dropping the litter onto the ground below. He examines his bruised knuckles as he does so, sore as they are from his consistent boxing. It's cold comfort, really, making himself uncomfortable on purpose, but he supposes it gives him something to focus on. Something beside the desire to rot from the inside, to poison the bits of himself that he hates so much.

Eventually he clambers back down from the tree, startling a young family having a picnic. He mumbles a half-hearted apology and leaves the park, heading into a nearby beer garden. The front is lined with a high bar that faces the street, and the windows are open, meaning Zayn can sit and people-watch while drinking beer. Provided, of course, that his fake is passable here, which it is with a single teasing smile.

 

Sometimes he wishes people gave him more trouble. Sometimes he wishes people weren't so goddamn easy, but in turn he just wants some things to go his way without a big fuss. Which is ridiculous, of course, he can't have the world both ways. He can't really have the world _any_ which way, except in the way he doesn't want. He doesn't really want to get by on his looks, has really always hated being told he's such a pretty little boy. He exploits it, sure, but he doesn't like it.

He wants the world to switch around; he wants to be tested on his merits rather than tucked away into a menagerie of pretty possessions. And he wants to break beautiful things.

 

He wanders home tipsy and soft, actually remembering to stop off at the grocery store to buy Harry some food. Zucchini and broccoli are as far as he'll go, though, and the rest is indeed pizza and beer. There are only so many concessions a man can make.

:::

 

Liam is, naturally, still in the apartment when Zayn gets back, adding nothing positive to the general mood of the place. Harry is sitting in front of the couch, papers and pencils littered around him all over the floor. Liam is standing at attention across the room, ram-rod upright with his arms raised into the air. The position does a decent job of highlighting the planes of Liam’s broad chest and abdomen, his skin taut over his muscles. Naturally, Zayn would love nothing more than to punch him in the face, but Liam could, and probably would, absolutely slaughter him.

Zayn might have a passive death-wish, but he has no desire to be slaughtered.

He silently moves to the kitchen to sit down the groceries and grab three beers, setting them on the table when he returns. He then sits down on the couch and peeks over Harry’s back to look at his drawings. They range from hyper-realistic to jagged harsh lines and curves, the ones of Liam being made of mostly rounded bends while Zayn looks entirely angular. He notes that Harry’s done them both in shades of red and gold, as if they actually have enough in common that they’re comparable to one another. Zayn’s face has more dark smudges while Liam is pink-champagne, but they’re not so different. The result is unnerving.

Zayn sucks back more than half his beer before speaking. “So you just, like. Make a study of the male form?”

“No, but one of the stipulations was to include a vast range of emotion. You two are the moodiest fuckers I know.” Harry shrugs, pulling a hairtie off his wrist so he can collect his hair into a bun.

“Gee thanks. What’s this one, then?” Zayn nudges at a picture where his own face looks particularly battered and dark.

“Unbridled lust.”

“Very funny.” Zayn lights up a cigarette, careful to ash it in the weird votive thing he moved out of the guestroom because he appreciates its ugliness. “Liam. What about you? Got any good work in?” He tells himself that is all the effort he is willing to put in, and he thinks it’s true.

“A few. I’m kind of running a different angle than Harry is, doing a series of triptychs. It’s hard to move them from my apartment too much.”

“What class is this even for?” Zayn scrunches up his brow, leaning in to look at Harry’s other sketches.

“Diversity in Multimedia,” Harry explains. “I’m considering setting fire to some of these. We’ve kind of got a decent amount of range to play with. Celia’s painting in blood and piping in screamo for her presentation, I think. Right?”

“Think so. I’m doing pointillism. That’s about all I’ve got.” Liam sighs and lowers his arms. He rolls his shoulders out and sits on the end of the couch, looking casually at Zayn. “I kind of slept through most of my theory classes, so I mostly just fly by the seat of my pants.”

“You slept _with_ the T.A., Leem. Don’t try to play me.” Harry tips his head back, dropping it onto Liam’s lap.

“Wait, did you really?” Zayn responds, mouth quirking into a bright smile.

“Want the gory details?” Liam asks, biting his lip.

“No,” Zayn scoffs, rocking his head to one side. “Whore-y, more like. Whatever.”

Harry finally opens the beer Zayn brought him, shuffling his papers together into a pile. “Thanks for the shower beer, Z. Don’t hate-fuck til I get back, I wanna film it.”

Liam groans loudly while Zayn tosses a balled-up piece of paper at Harry’s retreating figure. “We both hate you!” Zayn crows, making gagging noises. “And I expect you to fix me dinner, sweetums, since I went out and got groceries and everything!”

“Fajitas and tequila it is!” Harry yells back, slamming the bathroom door.

“He’ll house-wife you up yet,” Liam says, but his tone is light rather than pointed.

“What about you? Prospects, horizon?” Zayn takes a long drag of his cigarette.

“Are you actually asking, or are you, like, sending out feelers about H?”

“I’m—shit. I’m actually asking.” Zayn swallows thickly.

“How very sweet. And not at all antagonistic.” Liam is still noticeably shirtless, and Zayn is still trying not to look at him closely.

“How’s that Word-a-Day calendar that your—girlfriend? Boyfriend? Wife? Got you for your birthday?”

“Oh, Zayn. I’m dyslexic, not stupid.” Liam reaches for the last beer and twists the cap off. “Thanks for the beer, though.”

“Fine, whatever.” Zayn gets off the couch and moves to the stereo to change the music. He cues up whatever hipster bullshit Harry was playing, although internally he admits (not even begrudgingly) that he loves Gogol Bordello, and that they’re not even particularly hipster. He finishes his beer and picks up _Unbroken,_ not truly paying attention as Liam picks up Harry’s sketchbook and turns to a blank page.

They sit in silence, a silence that’s strangely companionable, long past when Harry exits the shower and into when he starts making dinner for all of them. “Has he ever set anything on fire?” Liam asks without looking up from the page in front of him. “Since you’ve known him, I mean.”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Hm.” Liam licks his thumb and rubs it against his paper. “I gotta tell you, sometimes I think that I just really don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows. “In that, my friend? You are not alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> -Fucking Shahid I swear to god.  
> -Zayn’s an ass! SURPRISE!  
> -I love making Liam be mean.  
> -Nick and Louis are married or something I guess  
> -No one is innocent here except maybe Niall FOR NOW
> 
> And yes I made up gangs for this fic because I don’t want to have to deal with the history and back-story associated with real NY gangs it’s too exhausting and fraught.
> 
>  
> 
> me on tumblr: musiclily


	10. Sucker Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coney Island Baby

Chapter 10. Sucker Number One

During dinner with Liam and Harry, well. Zayn gets drunk. He can tell that Harry and Liam are looking at him with looks of mixed pity and disdain, the disdain mostly coming from Liam. Harry shortly lights up his favorite piece, which he’s named Alice, inviting Liam to catch up with Zayn’s obvious inebriation. In exactly so many words. It feels pointed.

But Zayn keeps his mouth shut, just necks another beer and watches Liam and Harry orbit around one another. He’s aware as ever that Liam refuses to divulge anything about his relationship status or sexual orientation or much of anything but art. And, like, Zayn is mad about it, but not furious. He gets that the intensity of Harry’s flirting is flattering and arousing and fucking _hot._ He gets that Liam might want to bask in it.

But he also does hate it. He hates that Liam hedges and won’t answer his questions, won’t admit to being straight or gay or bi or celibate or goddamn castrated. He won’t tell Zayn anything.

Instead he invites Harry and Zayn to a concert for the next night, claiming that Fox’s Hound is the _best local group he’s ever heard of._ In a fit of pettiness, Zayn wants to tell him not to end a sentence with a preposition, but he catches himself. It’s something like growth.

 

:::

And goddamn it if the concert isn’t amazing, if Zayn doesn’t sway along to every single song, even though he’s never heard them before. They mingle in the club before the show starts, putting on a generous front of buying one another beer. It’s hard to keep track of who wins, really, once they all get decidedly drunk. Harry plasters himself to Zayn’s back, despite having previously declared himself a little-spoon, while Liam grinds on the dance-floor with a beautiful brunette.

The concert is raucous, and both the audience and the band are drunk. Everything is bright and bouncing.

The last thing Zayn remembers is an EM chord and Harry dragging him in for a kiss.

:::

Zayn wakes up with a headache, a sore stomach, and a groan. But he’s in Harry’s bed, rather than the guestroom, and he’s been stripped to his boxers. He’s seventy-percent okay.

Unlike Harry, who seems to have decided that huddling on the floor was his best course of action for the morning. “Babe, hey, love,” Zayn croaks out, flapping one arm toward Harry. “Come here, what’s wrong?”

“Feel shitty.”

“Drink water.”

“Puked water into the sink.”

Zayn sighs, poking one finger into his own forehead. “Eat something greasy and then drink something carbonated. Promise.”

Harry’s chest heaves once, his breath going in and out. “I’m trusting you.”

“It’s my best guess, babe.”

“It better be.”

He watches Harry lever himself to his feet, looking green and queasy, until he pitches out of the room. It’s not sexy. Zayn thumbs along his own clammy lips, knowing that he has a tendency to sleep with his mouth open. He snuggles back into bed and tries not to die in the daylight.

:::

The day is a wash. Harry returns to bed after force-feeding himself two fried eggs, and the smell lingers on him so much that it makes Zayn’s stomach lurch. He manages to choke down his rising bile and submits to the koala-like cuddling Harry forces on him. They fall into a doze until the middle of the evening, when Zayn awakes in a full-body sweat.

He gnaws on his thumbnail as he slowly extricates himself from Harry, moving to open the window so he can sit on the sill and smoke. He feels a bit like he’s been sent through a meat grinder and reconstituted in to something resembling a person. It’s deeply unpleasant.

He sighs and leaves the bedroom for the living room, flicking the television on and pulling up Netflix. He scrolls aimlessly until he lands on Criminal Minds, which he’s seen most of thanks to his mother’s morbid obsession with the show. Selecting it, he quickly lights up another cigarette until he’s chain-smoked his way through five episodes—and Harry’s still not left his room.

For a moment, the panicky lizard-part of his brain worries that someone has snuck into the apartment and serial-killed Harry and is now lying in wait for him, too. It’s one of his basest fears, that he’ll be brutally murdered by a lunatic in some sort of spree killing that will go unsolved. He’s not particularly proud of it.

He pauses the show and gets to his feet, picking up the ashtray so he can empty it into the kitchen trashcan. He turns the oven on so he can make the freezer pizza he bought, and he quietly walks back to Harry’s room. He finds Harry sitting cross-legged on the bed in only striped boxers, typing away on a laptop propped in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

“Ordering some stuff for work.”

“Stuff? Like what?”

“Burner phones, at the moment. Will you hand me my pants?” Harry asks, still not looking at Zayn but pointing vaguely towards the floor where he deposited them last night. Zayn complies, watching, rapt, as Harry fishes his wallet out of the back pocket.

“You’re putting burner phones on your credit card? Really?” Zayn snorts, crossing his arms.

“God, no. Pre-paid debit. Like I want this shit traced back to me. You can buy cards in practically any increment, and since I buy them with cash, no paper trail.” Harry finally looks up, giving him a bright beam, making his dimples pop.

“That’s—proper mastermind shit, H.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

Zayn walks to the foot of the bed and sits down, running one hand against his stubbled chin. “Suppose you’d have to, if you’ve had to support yourself for this long.”

“I didn’t _have_ to. Not technically.” Harry goes back to the computer. “I do it because I _like_ it.”

And that makes more sense than anything else that Harry’s ever said. There does seem to be a bit of a thrill to it, the illegality of it, the risk of selling to the wrong person, meeting new people and charming them into trusting him. Not to mention that it keeps him in nice digs with pretty possessions, endearing him to pretty people. It’s not a bad life.

Harry spends his days flirting with danger and is largely rewarded for it.

“You’re hot when you’re concentrating.”

“I’m hot all the time.”

Zayn chews on this a bit. “Considering that about ten hours ago, you were puking in the sink like a hungover bulimic and yet you still look like—this, well. Speaks to the truth of that, I guess.”

“Thank you. Just give me, like, ten more minutes, then you’ve got my undivided attention.”

“Kay. I started the oven for pizza. You up for it?”

“Up for anything,” Harry agrees.

Zayn retreats quietly, still feeling a bit queasy but trying to master it. The low thrumming that’s usually in his veins is muted right now, probably dulled by the nicotine and hangover. He doesn’t entirely feel up for liquids yet, but hopes the food will help settle him further. Looking down at himself, he takes in the image of what he looks like right now.

As always, he’s waspishly thin, but there’s a bruised sheen to his skin, not just on his knuckles, but everywhere. He needs to eat.

It’s an old routine, his tendency to forget about mealtimes and proper hydration. His mother chastised him for it during his youth, his sisters clucked at him, and even his grandma and _daadi_ chimed in when they visited. The women of his family tend to worry. The tendency somehow skipped Zayn in the typical ways, but it fed into his panic at inopportune times. Whereas his mother worried over him when he didn’t eat, Zayn usually felt too, well, anxious to eat.

It’s tricky on the best days and downright horrible on the worst.

Rather than reflect on all the ways he’s fucked himself up, Zayn puts the pizza in the oven. Then he goes back to the television and all the creative ways people have of hurting one another.

:::

Things remain calm for the next few days, Harry spending most of his time working and Zayn doing a fair amount of training with Niall at the gym. They’ve developed an easy rapport, although Zayn thinks that maybe Niall has that with everyone. Despite the goofy hairstyle, bleached-blond as it is, Niall has his charms.

Niall insists they get food after most of their training sessions, leading Zayn practically by the hand to all of his favorite neighborhood haunts. He gives away portions of himself easily, as though at no cost, telling Zayn in turn that he wants to be a chef someday and that he once fell into a terrible depression when he was laid-up after he had surgery on both his knees.

“Don’t like being useless,” he added with a shrug, natural and easy. “Da helped whip me into shape though. Owe him my life.”

“In more ways than one?” Zayn tries, going for the joke rather than for the gut-shot.

Niall tips his head back and laughs loudly. “True!”

“I get that. Or like. I dunno. My sister always used to say I had a case of The Sads.”

Niall nods, humming gently. They continue along the sidewalk in silence for a few minutes. “How’d you deal, then? What do you do?”

The heat in Zayn’s throat cuts off his words until he swallows it down. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t.”

Niall pats Zayn’s cheek, and it doesn’t feel entirely condescending, although it probably should. “You’re young yet.”

Zayn snorts a little too loudly. “And you’re, what, my _daada?”_

“What’s that?”

“My—grandpa. Paternal.”

“Oh, cool.” He slips a small notebook from his back pocket and opens it. “Is it—Urdu? How’d you spell that?”

“Yeah.” Zayn tells him how to spell it, leaning sideways to watch as Niall writes it out on the lined paper. “Very old-school of you.”

“I like analog more than digital.” Niall puts the notebook back and grips Zayn by the wrist. “Okay, bro, get ready for the best bao of your life. You ready?”

“Sure.”

“You have no idea what you’re in for, seriously.”

“Cultural maven, my little Nialler.”

“Student of life, that’s me.”

“Gonna conquer the big wide world one of these days?”

“That’s the plan.”

They step into the restaurant—a little hole-in-the-wall that Zayn probably would have utterly neglected to notice without Niall’s instruction—and take a seat by the front window. Niall orders for them both after Zayn admits he’s never tried bao. They drink tea and Zayn finally convinces Niall to show him his notebook in exchange for showing off some of his sketches. Mostly he just pulls random scraps of paper from inside his jacket pockets, sliding them across the tabletop for Niall to inspect. He’s much more interested in the random shit that Niall’s deemed important enough to jot in his tiny notebook.

There are a few poems and lists, a couple of reminders about errands and some phone numbers, but mostly it’s word after word. A few are in English but most aren’t, and they’re always followed by a definition. It’s mildly obsessional, but it’s also something Zayn himself would do. It makes his chest hurt.

“You’re an odd duck,” is all he says, flicking to a page covered only in Italian words and phrases.

“Stop flirting with me,” Niall responds, flashing him a crooked but very genuine smile.

“You wish.” Zayn rolls his eyes and fishes a stubby pencil from his jacket before turning to a blank page of Niall’s notebook. He tries—and fails—to capture the giddy sunshine of Niall’s smile, but he gives it an honest effort.

 

:::

The next morning, Zayn wakes up because Harry bodily _jumps_ on him. Unsettled and uncomfortable, Zayn just groans and tries to roll away, only to be recaptured by Harry’s impossible, noodly, arms.

“Guess what we’re doing today?”

“Going back to sleep?”

“Going to Coney Island!”

Zayn sighs. “Why in god’s name would we do that?”

“I wanna go on _rides,_ Z, come on.”

“I’ll show you a ride—” he begins, only to quiet quickly when Harry slaps a hand over his mouth.

“No, no puns. I’m serious.”

Zayn dislodges Harry’s huge body and rolls away. “If you say no puns, then you must be serious.”

“I’d offer to fuck on the beach, but I’ve tried that before and it’s a terrible idea.”

“Handjob on the ferris wheel?” Zayn asks hopefully, cracking one eye open.

“Sure!”

“You’re such an easy mark.” But rather than argue further, he gets out of bed and starts getting dressed.

:::

The last time Zayn was at Coney Island, he was about twelve. He no longer remembers much about it, only that it was crowded and loud, people walking around with obvious and unbridled joy lighting up their faces.

Harry immediately buys a funnel cake that’s bigger than his hand, laying into it quickly. “Slow down, kid, you don’t want to get sick.”

“I’ve got the constitution of a horse, don’t worry,” Harry assures him.

“Yeah, yeah. Do you even like roller coasters?”

“I honestly don’t know, I’ve never been on one.”

“You’ve—you’ve never been on one?”

“Nope.” Harry chomps down on his next bite particularly hard, as if to emphasize his point.

“Oh, my sweet child,” Zayn says with a laugh. “This is gonna fuck you up.” Zayn, an adrenaline junkie in his own right, knows that Harry will either become obsessed with the high of the ride or will loathe everything about it. “But either way, you probably shouldn’t eat anything else.”

 

Twenty minutes later finds them in line for the Thunderbolt, and Harry’s looking a little green. “You’ll be fine, dude, I’ll hold your hand,” Zayn promises.

Zayn does hold his hand, watching when he’s able—out of the corner of his eye—to see Harry’s face. They both scream at every dip, twist, and drop. But they both make it out alive and not much the worse for wear.

Zayn hustles Harry to a bench since he’s looking a little wan, but Harry shakes him off easily. “Nah, I’m good, I’m good. That was—”

“Awesome as shit?”

“Pretty much.”

“Yeah. My dad initially—so I used to be afraid of heights and actually of swimming, too, so he brought me here when I was like six, the first time.” Zayn inhales sharply, once, at the vividness of the sense memory. “Not ideal, but it was pretty effective. Rollercoasters and the beach, all in one place.”

“You were six?” Harry’s tone is careful in a way Zayn dislikes.

“I mean, he didn’t, like, throw me into the ocean or force me to get strapped into any of the rides, but it was kind of a ride-or-die situation, you know? Better than being afraid.”

“Is it?”

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s all I’ve ever known, so I’ve got to say that it is.”

Harry slings an arm around Zayn’s neck and shoulders, reeling him in so he can press a kiss to his temple. It’s a simple gesture, but fortifying. “All right,” he says easily. “Where to next?”

They get in line for the ferris wheel next, Harry pressing up against Zayn’s back the way he does so well. He looks around at the crowds, spies broods of children and lovey-dovey couples, and he feels a swooping in his gut. He’s not even on a ride yet.

He turns around and catches Harry in a tight hug, knocking the breath out of both of them. Harry removes his phone from his tight jeans—black today—and thumbs the lock, opening up the camera. He takes a series of photos of the both of them, Zayn pulling bug-eyes and Harry inevitably making a face that most resembles a frog. He adds three of them to instagram with varied filters, and Zayn snorts. But he appreciates it.

He tries to convince Harry to take photos at the crest of the next four rides they go on, but Harry cares too much for his phone to risk its life even for an _admittedly bitching photo._

“Ah, I’ve figured it out, then. Your greatest fear is breaking your phone!”

Harry snorts, bumping his knee against Zayn’s in the car of their coaster as they wait for the ride to start. “Nah. It’s on the list, but it’s hardly at the top.”

Zayn, for his part, knocks their shoulders together. “Hey, I shared mine, share and share alike.”

“What, heights and water are the big two?”

“Oh. Oh, no. Mediocrity and getting brutally murdered by a serial killer.”

Harry bites his lip over what is obviously a laugh. “Legitimate, very legitimate.”

“And yours?”

“Like you don’t know.”

Zayn knows. Rather than admitting he knows, though, he shrugs.

Harry stretches out his neck, looking over his shoulder at the attendants who are locking the lap-bars of other compartments on the ride. “Loss. It’s just—like I can’t explain it.”

“Explain what?”

Harry heaves a sigh, like his breath is being wrenched from the bottom of his soul. “It’s easier to stay surface-level, to flit in and out rather than to risk—but then that’s lonely too, that’s shitty, so I just go back and forth, don’t I, and I just—stay at people’s beach houses when they’re away so I don’t have to focus on the fact that they’re going to leave me too. It’s lonely more often than not, but it’s less lonely than the alternative.”

“The alternative?”

He’s quiet for a moment, but just as the ride starts to move—“It hurts too much, Z. You’ve got no idea.”

Zayn doesn’t touch the subject again.

:::

He forces—to use the term gently—Harry to make them dinner, perpetually impressed by what he can create with whatever happens to be left in the apartment. That means garlic-and-olive-oil pasta with leftover chicken, all lightly dusted with parmesan.

“I’ve always heard that garlic is an aphrodisiac,” Harry murmurs from where they’re sitting at the kitchen island.

Zayn laughs. “You are so full of shit,” he says, but he leans in anyhow, pressing a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“Such romance. You sure know how to woo, don’t you?” He pushes his bowl away from him, moving Zayn’s as well. “So what do you say? You wanna get out of here?”

He rolls his eyes but is quick to stand and strip out of his henley, dropping it behind himself as he stalks his way into the bedroom. As he moves into the doorway, an idea strikes him, so he looks wildly around the room until he spots a pile of Harry’s frilly headscarves. He plucks up two and waits for Harry to join him.

Dropping the scarves onto the bed, he starts unbuttoning his jeans as Harry does the same, and their clothes fall into a pile on the floor. “Do you trust me?” Zayn asks quietly, fluttering his lashes and picking up the scarves again.

“Mostly. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something, though,” Harry replies with a wolfish smile.

“Hands behind your back? If I tie you up like that, think you can hold yourself open for me?” 

Harry gives this honest-to-god thought. “Not if I’m on my knees, but if I’m on my back, probably?”

“And if I bend you over the bed?”

_“Oh.”_ Harry nods slowly, pulling his hair into a bun at the top of his head. “I can get behind that.”

Zayn leads Harry to the foot of the bed, bending him gently at the waist so he presses, just barely, against the mattress. He saw that Harry was only half-hard, so he’s careful to leave space for his erection to hoist higher.

“I’ll prep you, babe, but you’ve got to hold yourself open for me, okay? Can you do that?”

Harry nods, before turning his head to press his cheek against the bed. He criss-crosses his hands behind his back and waits patiently for Zayn to tie them together. Zayn then collects lube and a strip of condoms, opening the bottle with his teeth. He pours some onto the fingers of his right hand and warms it up against his palm, pressing his other hand onto Harry’s lower back.

“Love you,” Harry murmurs, his eyes falling shut, looking blissed-out already.

“Love you too, babe. Now lemme take care of you.” Zayn presses his fingers against Harry, smearing lube around before he even makes a move for his rim. “So pretty, aren’t you? Splayed out like this.”

Harry hums, the vibrations resounding in his chest.

Zayn presses one finger into Harry, slowly, glancing at the way Harry’s hands are straining to hold himself wide, his fingers ghosting white as they press into his skin.

He pumps in and out slowly with one single finger before adding another, easing it in along with the first. He scissors them apart, opening Harry up carefully. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder-blade.

Eventually he adds a third finger, squirting more lube with his free hand. “Sorry if it’s cold, love, should only last a second.”

“It’s okay,” Harry mutters, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

He pistons his fingers in and out, feeling Harry stretch around him. “There you go, that’s a boy. Almost there.” He swirls his fingers a few times to make sure Harry’s properly prepped. “Yeah?”

“Ready, ready, yeah.”

Zayn pulls a condom off the strip and opens it with his teeth, rolling it onto himself fluidly. He grips at Harry’s hip before he slides in after lining himself up. The slide is gradual and even, slick bodies aligned with one another as Harry hums again, low in his throat.

Zayn pauses once he’s fully inside, waiting for Harry’s breath to even out. “You all good?” he grinds out, his voice thick as he tries to still his movements until Harry’s ready.

“You can move,” Harry agrees, nodding into the mattress.

Zayn continues to grip Harry’s hip with one hand but plants another in the middle of his back for leverage. Only then does he pull back, moving out of Harry before slamming abruptly back in. They both keen with it, sensations already heightened and the room heating up.

Zayn snaps his hips back and forth rhythmically as his pulse races faster and faster, chasing the high of an imminent orgasm. He glances down, looking at Harry’s pressed-down form. He moans, pulling at his asscheeks so that his fingertips leave dimples in his flesh.

Zayn groans, moving his own hands to cover Harry’s, pulling right along with him. Then he leans in and bites along Harry’s neck and spine, sucking down to leave spit-slick marks in his wake. “’S’good, yeah,” Harry mutters, breathless, eyes squeezed shut tight.

“You are, you’re being good for me, babe,” Zayn agrees, grasping at Harry’s wrists before he lets Harry take responsibility for it, instead moving his hands to pull the hairtie out of Harry’s bun. Then he digs his fingers in deep, separating strands and yanking at locks in even turns. “Such pretty hair, and you’re being so good,” he says on a quiet sigh, rocking easily against Harry as he forces his cock deeper inside.

Zayn can hear himself whining, can hear that he too has gone breathless, but rather than care he just continues to dick into Harry, who’s pliant and soft beneath him. Then Zayn finally— _finally_ —hits Harry’s prostate and Harry goes slack as he groans loudly. Zayn yanks Harry’s upward by his hair, making his back arch obscenely even as his hips stay planted on the bed.

Harry starts shunting his hips forward in time with Zayn’s thrusts, seemingly getting pressure on his cock from the mattress beneath his frame. “Fuck yeah, yeah, yeah,” Zayn cries out, pulling hard at Harry’s hair as heat coils low in his stomach. “Close, babe, you close?”

Harry nods furiously, curls falling loosely around his ears even as Zayn holds him fast. “You first,” he begs, voice wrecked and scratchy, “yeah?”

“Okay, babe, okay,” Zayn says, screwing his eyes shuts as warmth collects in his chest, and he can’t control his movements anymore, all he can really do is fuck into Harry like he’s going to die. All of a sudden, he’s coming and grunting, spilling into the condom and loosing his hands from Harry’s hair because his muscles have gone lax.

He slowly pulls out and ties off the condom, flipping Harry onto his back, his hands trapped between his ass and the mattress. Zayn unceremoniously dips in to mouth at the tip of Harry’s cock, which looks raw and red, both from friction and arousal. He pumps at the base with one hand, looking up to see Harry’s sweaty, flushed face. He’s beautiful and debauched. He’s everything.

Within moments, Harry comes into Zayn’s mouth, spilling onto his tongue and down his throat. Zayn swallows as he pumps Harry through it, listening to the quiet whine from the back of Harry’s throat. Only when he’s spent does Zayn back off, patting at Harry’s hip with one hand. “There we go, there’s a babe,” Zayn murmurs, snaking his hands behind Harry’s back to try to untie his wrists. He’s ultimately unsuccessful and has to ask Harry to flip so he can work on the knots.

Harry’s arms fall to his sides and Zayn immediately moves to massage his wrists and hands. “You okay? Hey, talk to me.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s fine. All good.” His words are a bit slurred but understandable, so Zayn takes it as truth. He continues to pet and massage Harry for at least forty-five minutes, eventually flipping him onto his back again so they can cuddle.

Zayn tries to convince Harry that they should shower, but Harry wheedles him into changing it to a bath. Then they eat the cold leftovers of their dinner and tumble back into bed, exhausted and sated.

:::

Harry’s gone when Zayn wakes up the next morning, presumably working, so he heads to the gym as soon as he’s awake enough to be coherent. 

Niall’s not in, disappointingly, so Zayn heads to the rowing machine first, working hard until his arms feel raw. Then he moves to the bag after binding his knuckles and shoving his hands into his gloves, battered though they might be. Battered—both his hands and his gloves.

He leaves after two hours, even though he doesn’t actually feel tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days in a row! Hooray! Hope y'all like my goddamn shit!
> 
> -The only band I made up was Fox’s Hound. It sounds like a band, man, I dunno.  
> -I’m not a drug dealer but I kind of assume this is how one would go about doing it and not getting caught. DON’T DO DRUGS, KIDS.  
> -Oh Zayn. What am I going to do with you.
> 
> tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr: littlebint


	11. Entertain Me & Enter In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Want to talk about it?”
> 
> “Rather die,” Harry says on an exhale, voice tacky with hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F/F/M/M foursome in this chapter. If it's not your bag, don't read!!!!!!
> 
> I dunno, dub con? They consent but not to specific actions. I dunno. Read with caution. Foursomes are weird. It’s not my wheelhouse. Whatever.
> 
> This is a bit of a departure from other chapters, in terms of content, but the tone and everything is the same. It's just sluttier, let's be real. Harry and Zayn are still holding on strong, by which I mean "nuttier than fruitcakes and weirdly in love."

Two nights later, Harry bursts from a screaming nightmare, throat going raw with shrieks. He claws against Zayn’s neck and shoulder with blunt fingernails, and Zayn can feel him drawing blood. It feels good, a bit, and Zayn lets the guilt fill his chest like so much messy water, green and thick. 

Harry doesn’t wake up for way too long, so long that Zayn’s one foot and both shoulders have started to cramp up—but then he’s probably dehydrated and potassium-deprived, because when is he not. Eventually he just wraps Harry in a full-body bind, like a hug but closer.

So it’s ages before Harry wakes up, and by then they’re both sweaty, plus Zayn’s a little bit _hard._ Leave it to his body, honestly, because he’s fucking straddling Harry at this point, the bottom of his semi pressing against Harry’s abs. They’re both slick with it, with pre-come and sweat and maybe—

“Tears,” Zayn mutters, planting his palms on Harry’s shoulders. “Are you crying?”

Harry bucks Zayn off, flipping onto his stomach. “I’m not trying to,” he growls, voice ripping through them both like it’s alive despite them.

Zayn curls against Harry’s side, tucking their bare toros together even with the stick and slick. He waits for Harry to stop complaining before he presses a kiss to Harry’s cooling jaw.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Rather die,” Harry says on an exhale, voice tacky with hurt.

:::

Zayn wakes up to raucous squeaking, something like bedsprings of newlyweds. Instead it’s—Zayn thinks it’s the punching bag Harry installed, and Zayn feels like the very air around him is alive and humid-hot. He pads into the open light of the apartment, rushing to Harry when he first sees him.

Harry is just repeatedly bashing his shoulder into the punching bag, shoving it, again and again, into the wall like he’s fucking it to death.

Mostly he’s just fucking himself up, because Zayn can already see splatter-paint bruises littering Harry’s shoulders, one hot-bright on his cheekbone like maybe he punched himself in the face.

“Christ.” Zayn rushes forward, circling Harry’s waist with his arms and yanking him bodily into his chest. “Stop it, holy shit, stop it!” They tumble onto the floor together, Harry landing heavily on Zayn’s pelvis and legs. Zayn hisses and pain and slaps artlessly into the air. “Do I have to buy you a hamster ball? Have you committed? Christ, what are you _doing?”_

“I dunno.”

“You dunno. _You dunno.”_

“Whatever I want?” Harry asks weakly, collapsing back so his shoulderblades hit the floor. “Did you know that until the 1970s, homosexuality was still a recognized disorder in the DSM?”

“Yes. But you know what? It’s not anymore. And also you’re not gay, so don’t play that game.”

Harry huffs. “Then what am I?”

“Having bizarre night terrors?”

“Also in the DSM,” Harry adds, pointing one limp hand to the coffee table, where a thick gray book sits, looking forlorn and stormy.

“Why do you even have that?”

“Louis thought it might help me explain my erratic behaviors.”

“Well Louis needs to look up the side effects of mixing coke and weed.” Zayn clambers to his feet and picks up the hefty text. “Rather than torturing yourself with medical books, why not stop being ridiculous and ask me to tie you up?”

 _“Because_ the words don’t come! And the pot’s practically all that relaxes me but then I sleep and wake up screaming my fucking head off, and that gets _old,_ Z, it just does! So that’s where the coke comes in, but then I’m too wired to be of any use and it’s just too fucking _much.”_

“What is?”

“Seeing the fucking car crash on a mobius strip in my head, just twisting over again and again! Wondering why _I_ didn’t go through the fucking windshield instead.”

Zayn looms over Harry and stretches out a hand. “Up, up.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re taking a bath.”

“What are you doing?”

“Supervising.” 

And googling. He hustles Harry into the bathroom, setting up a stupid-hot tub of water. Then he undresses Harry gently, although he refrains from lowering him bodily into the bath.

“Not joining?” Harry asks in a voice much too quiet for his personality.

“No, love.” Zayn sinks down beside the tub, crossing his legs akimbo while thumbing through his phone. The cracked screen no longer hinders him reading it (mostly), so he’s able to pull up pages for psychiatrists and GPs without hassle. He takes a moment to leave the bathroom, once again retrieving Harry’s fancy goddamn wallet. At the very back under a leather flap, Zayn spots a laminated scrap of cardstock, thankfully, bearing his insurance policy number. Colleges and their fucking student health plans, honestly.

He settles back down onto the bathroom floor. “How’s your coverage?” he murmurs, holding up the card between his pointer and middle fingers.

In response, Harry splashes around and sinks beneath the water, spitting out bubbles and air.

:::

It takes three days to convince Harry to go to a doctor. She’s just a part-time physician at the Student Health Center, but she looks at Harry like she gives a shit about his wellbeing. She asks about his eating habits and his mood and his behaviors, and Harry mostly tells the truth, so she gives him a scrip for an SSRI and a referral to a counselor.

Harry shoves both slips of paper into his back pocket, and Zayn doesn’t hold out too much hope that he’ll use either. But they exist, and something of that sets Zayn’s mind at ease.

:::

Neither one of them sleeps much the next few days. Harry chain-smokes while sorting through his immense record collection. Zayn deep-cleans the apartment. He even fills the sink with sudsy water and rolls up his sleeves, washing until his hands go wrinkly. It’s definitely something his mother wouldn’t believe if he didn’t snap a photo and text it to her. She sends back _!!!!!!_ followed by _about damn time, my boy._

He can’t bring himself to talk too in-depth, feels out of his element in all areas of his life. He definitely can’t bring himself to call her right now, not surrounded by the wreckage of Harry’s family. Or at least the lingering grief, the stuff that’s stuck around when nothing else has.

Zayn can’t relate. He just can’t. All he has for his family is either love or rage, depending on who he’s thinking about or interacting with. He’s perpetually, _eternally_ angry at his father, and nothing softens it. Not his gentle affection for his sisters or his fierce consuming adoration for his mother. He’s just got fiery anger and that’s it.

So he has no supportive words for Harry, not that he would know what to say even if half his family died in a car crash, too. Instead he voluntarily left his family, rather than involuntarily getting left behind. Even his best attempt would be condescending, not comforting.

So he does what his mom always offered to do when someone was going through a hard time, whether it be job loss, illness, divorce, what have you. His mother offered to clean house, and she made a shit-ton of food.

But Zayn can’t cook for shit, so he’s just cleaning. And doing laundry. And making Harry wash his filthy hair.

They fuck, like, every couple of hours, and Zayn always orders food in afterwards, trying to fatten Harry back up. It’s fruitless, of course, in more ways than one—Harry stays slender, for starters, but Zayn patently refuses to purchase anything heart-healthy, like pomegranates or kale. Fuck kale.

Zayn notices—and does not ask about—the G and A tattoos Harry has on his shoulders. He’s more than fairly sure he knows what they mean, and he’s not interested in having that conversation.

So he vacuums, because Harry has a vacuum, and he irons, because Harry has an iron. He dusts and does the dishes and he sorts through dirty clothes. He makes beds and rifles through Harry’s books, and he chain-smokes just like Harry does. He starts to go fucking stir-crazy just as he reaches the guest room, and if that doesn’t feel ominous and possibly horrible, well.

He dusts and dusts and acts a fool before lying down on the sloppy-made bed. He falls into a doze until he hears Harry enter the room, shirtless and just wearing basketball shorts. He sighs heavily. “I have to confront this room eventually, don’t I?”

“It’s a thought,” Zayn agrees sleepily, flicking his eyes towards the closet. “You wanna throw something at me?”

“Sort of,” Harry admits with a shrug. “And to cry.”

“You need to get out of the fucking house, bro.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for it.” Harry sucks his bottom lip and sucks in a hard breath.

“You need it, though. So do I.”

 

That’s how they find themselves at Sarafina’s as dusk is about to fall, both a bit strung-out and tired. They clamber into a booth, the fabric still held together with little more than duct tape. Harry immediately picks up a salt shaker and pours some salt onto his palm. Zayn flicks a sugar packet at him and earns himself a glare from their waitress as she walks over and spots him.

They order beer and mozzarella sticks, because Zayn really is intent on fattening Harry up a bit. Except his attempts get confused when Perrie enters the diner, Jesy right behind her. Zayn forgot that the bank Perrie works at is quite nearby, forgot that they have friends and acquaintances in common—forgot a bit about her, really. He’s not sure how to feel about it all.

Both Perrie and Jesy spot him, and Perrie tips her head to one side for a moment. Then she grabs Jesy’s hand and meanders her way to the table, face easy-set. “Hey, pretty boys. How’s life?”

“Pey! Jay!” Harry exclaims, kicking his legs out. “Join join join! It’s so good to see you two.”

“Same,” Perrie says, easy as anything. She gives them both a neon grin. Her lips are painted bright purple, and her eyes are bright. She looks beautiful. Jesy, too, is bringing it, smoldering a bit at Harry. Who wouldn’t, really?

“Join?” Zayn says before any thought can move across his brain, because clearly he’s a moron.

Perrie and Jesy consider it a moment before clambering in, Jesy settling beside Harry’s long limbs, and Perrie sitting surprisingly far away from Zayn.

He doesn’t _mind_ but he doesn’t not mind.

They order (burgers, club sandwiches, salads, chili, more beer) but Zayn can’t pay attention to it, because of a sudden he’s caught up in looking at Perrie’s arms: they’re littered, positively covered, in lines of scabbed-over red. They’re of varying thickness and depth, and some of them cover up bumpy scars. He clears his throat.

It’s like he knew but didn’t actually _know,_ really, because it’s not new, but it’s shocking. Or something.

 

After ordering, Zayn excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He doesn’t actually take a piss or anything, just stares at his stupid reflection in the mirror for awhile like a goddamn idiot. Which he is.

Her pain is not about him. He takes a breath.

Then he heads back to the table and sits by Perrie, trying not to let the awkwardness get the best of him. It’s a half-losing game, as Jesy’s looking at Perrie like she hung the moon on a string, while Harry’s face is flat and miserable.

It’s not cute.

 

But probably it’s no big surprise when they all tumble their way back to Harry’s apartment, just verging to tipsy, giggles hot in their mouths. Maybe it’s not a mistake.

:::

The next bit is a bit predictable, given their history and the way they all keep looking at one another from beneath dark lashes. Zayn watches it all play out, will probably do anything to keep the depressive look from Harry’s face, even if it’s replaced by one of sparkling lust and almost-creepy intensity. He looks like he might attempt murder if someone doesn’t fuck him, actually, which shouldn’t make Zayn smile to himself, but it does.

He watches Harry play good host, watches him offer fancy drinks to everyone, watches him put on a Nina Simone album and dim the fucking lights. He doesn’t go so far as to put a sheer scarf over a lamp to set the mood, but it’s a near thing.

Perrie settles onto the sofa and Jesy curls around her legs, seemingly comfortable on the floor as long as she was in proximity to her girl. Harry sits on the other end of the sofa, tucking his long legs beneath his lanky body, lying his arm across the back of the couch invitingly. Zayn sits in the middle, managing not to snort when Harry swirls his neat glass of scotch.

It’s Harry who breaks the silence first. “So are we doing this, or what?” he asks, voice gravelly and not at all seductive.

Jesy tips her head back and laughs, knocking against Perrie’s knee. “Very smooth,” she adds, turning to smile at him indulgently.

“I think we can make it happen,” Perrie murmurs, and she _does_ sound seductive. She snakes a hand out to rub at Zayn’s stubbly cheek, dragging one thumb down against his bottom lip. “But we’re not fucking on the floor like animals.”

“I’d lay a quilt down,” Harry whines, sounding hurt at the aspersions on his hosting abilities.

“You have a perfectly good bed in this classy joint,” Zayn points out.

“Big enough for four, though?” Jesy asks softly, petting at Perrie’s leg.

“Um.” Harry considers. “It might be? I haven’t tried four, to be honest.”

“I’m a little surprised, actually,” Zayn says on a laugh, levering himself to his feet. “And why did we even make a pitstop into the living room, anyway.”

“It was a bit inevitable things would take this turn,” Harry agrees, unfolding his legs.

“Yeah, especially when you forced the issue so delicately.” Zayn casts his hands forward and helps Perrie and Jesy to their feet.

Harry trips his way to his bedroom, leaving a trail of stripped clothing behind as if to lead the way. Perrie steps out of her shoes as Jesy takes off her tank top, dropping their clothes unceremoniously, too. Everyone’s half-naked by the time they reach Harry’s room, where he is gloriously and completely nude. He’s only wearing a goofy grin and a headscarf.

Jesy squeals playfully and tosses her bra at him like she’s a fan-girl and he’s a rockstar. He does kind of look like a rockstar, albeit one with shittier tattoos than typical. For her part, Jesy absolutely looks like a rockstar, plus her tattoos are gorgeous. Zayn, in just his boxers and without even thinking, drops to his knees to lick at the script on her thigh.

She gasps and immediately fists at his hair, yanking. “Oh, you’re very good, aren’t you?” she asks, one sharp eyebrow raised high on her forehead.

“I try,” Zayn agrees, sitting backwards onto his heels. “You’re very beautiful, you know.”

Her face is soft as she looks down at him. “I know. Come on, up.” She gestures him to his feet and points him in the direction of Harry’s bed. She flicks her hair, which settles in loose curls around her full breasts. Zayn has to take two deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating.

Perrie circles around Jesy from behind, smoothing one hand around her hip and lower abdomen. She tucks her chin over Jesy’s shoulder, kissing behind her ear, running her palms over the smooth skin covering Jesy’s ribs. Zayn sits down on the bed, hard, and looks at a rapt Harry, who’s currently slack-jawed. 

It’s moments like this that not only smack Zayn in the face with his masculinity—they also make him feel like a bit of a shallow asshole. Which he probably is.

Jesy turns and lets Perrie circle her arms over her shoulders, melting against one another, chest to chest. Jesy trails sloppy kisses along Perrie’s collarbone until she reaches her bra strap, which she gently slides off her shoulder. Zayn spares Harry another glance, reckons that he and Harry both have the same look on their faces right now: As if, at any moment, they might die.

“Bed, sweetheart,” Jesy murmurs, slipping the strap off of Perrie’s other shoulder. They back up as one, and Perrie falls onto her back when they reach the bed. Jesy crawls over her, straddling her hips and leaning to support herself on her open palms right by Perrie’s head. She tips forward, pressing more kisses against Perrie’s chest, her tits hanging low in the air between them. Her nipples are firm and lickable, pebbling out in the air of the humid room.

They look lovely together, sweetness and light, Jesy as tan as Perrie is fair. They compliment one another in a way Zayn hasn’t seen much of, although he thinks maybe he curls into Harry the same way Perrie curls into Jesy.

Zayn takes off his boxers and sets them on the floor, still watching the—what, scene? Spectacle? Best thing that’s happened to him in awhile, as it unfolds?

He scoots backwards until he feels the heat of Harry’s skin, and he takes him in hand, thumbing against the head of Harry’s semi. He’s focused on the girls, focused on their almost supernatural connection, the way they mirror and mimic each other cleanly.

Perrie surges left as Jesy tucks against her right side, latching on to her earlobe. Jesy eases her arms around Perrie’s back, unclasping her bra—a beautiful thing, bright blue lace and flowers—and Zayn fists slowly at Harry’s cock. 

They’re a bit distracted, is the thing.

Harry’s breathing hitches, and he throws his head back a bit, eyes locked on Perrie and Jesy. Perrie moves one gentle hand into Jesy’s panties as Jesy eases the beautiful bra off of Perrie’s beautiful body. They’re golden, is the thing.

“Oh my,” Harry murmurs, head tilted towards the view.

“Aren’t we just?” Jesy agrees, arching a bit as Perrie works her over. Jesy licks over Perrie’s nipple, earning a gasp as it hardens. “Look at my girl.”

“Can’t look away,” Zayn agrees, pumping Harry languidly—and they’re both transfixed, lost in sex, lost in a way Zayn hasn’t felt in awhile, probably.

Because something about this is silly, but also so, so tenuous. 

Because this might be the first time, the last time, the only time.

Zayn looks to Harry again, gauging him, and they both nod, slowly separating. Zayn moves to hover behind Jesy, while Harry knee-walks over to Perrie, giving her cheek a kiss.

It’s all very civil, and Zayn isn’t about that.

He once again drops to his knees, setting his hands against Jesy’s thighs. Kneading at them, he moves forward to bite carefully at one of her ass cheeks, because really—it was begging for attention.

Jesy keens and Perrie giggles. Harry’s cupping Perrie’s breasts, his big hands covering her entirely. Zayn sucks again at Jesy’s pliant skin, looking to leave a mark.

 

Then Zayn stands, moving away to collect condoms and lube—just in case. He has absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on, but he knows to throw condoms onto the bedspread. He’s probably got an IQ of around 130, minimum, if his father has any knowledge about intelligence quotients.

(He once had Zayn tested, bragged about the results.)

Zayn then returns to kneel at Jesy’s side, nosing against her hip, pressing his pursed lips against her skin. He’s smitten, weirdly, probably due to the way she keeps looking at Perrie—like they’re both the end-all, the never-finished happy ending.

And maybe they are.

Harry’s still latched on to Perrie, lathing his pink lips against her pert nipples. Jesy, one hand still working Perrie over with careful precision, removes Perrie’s panties slowly, sliding them down her thighs.

“L-loving this attention,” Perrie whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut.

“And you deserve it, pretty girl,” Jesy murmurs into the open air.

Zayn stands and winds his way behind Jesy before easing her own panties off her legs. She sighs softly, letting him do what he likes. She eases one finger into Perrie before bending down again to lap at her tit. Adding a second without warning, she moves to Perrie’s other breast, licking audibly out.

Watching, again rapt, Zayn takes this as inspiration to ease his way into Jesy. He curves one hand around her hip, ducking into her cunt with two fingers. He circles her clit rhythmically and watches, listening to Perrie’s gentle moan.

Jesy adds two more fingers and presses her thumb against Perrie’s clit just as Zayn eases Jesy open a bit with his other hand, so he can see how slick she is. Sopping, really, is all he can think, which is a bit ridiculous, but his mind is—elsewhere. 

Harry moves to kneel behind Perrie’s head, ducks down to kiss at the tit that Jesy isn’t currently focused on. “Open, maybe?” he asks, voice small, directed at Perrie. “Feeling left out, is all.”

Perrie gives a soft chuckle and tips her head back, opening her mouth. “Have at it, but I’m a bit distracted,” she warns.

Harry moves to straddle Perrie a bit more, easing his cock into her mouth. Jesy kneads at Perrie’s right breast while sucking and biting at the left—and likely Perrie would moan, were she not occupied.

Zayn takes a moment to collect a condom from the bedspread, wrapping himself up and discarding the wrapper. He continues to circle Jesy’s clit as he drops a quiet kiss to the back of her shoulder and then—then his dicks’s burying itself inside her, working its way into her warmth like it’s nothing.

Zayn may be losing his mind.

Harry’s eyes have rolled back in his head, his dick half-swallowed by Perrie’s eager mouth. He ducks down to caress Jesy’s chin, although Jesy is—occupied, both with fingering Perrie and with tongueing at her breast.

Zayn finally bottoms out, sighing easily against Jesy’s bare back.

He’s absolutely and unequivocally losing his mind.

 

He starts dicking into Jesy in earnest, feeling a bit callous but also wildly horny, so he continues with it. It seems mutual, at the very least.

Zayn watches Perrie swallow Harry down, and he’s so hard he has to close his eyes. Jesy is warm and solid and lovely beneath him, and she’s still kissing Perrie’s adorable breasts. Their configuration is mildly insane, with Perrie flat on her back, Jesy hot over-top her, and Harry kneeling near Perrie’s head. Zayn’s the only one not on the bed, and he’s full-tilt inside Jesy, so much so that he cannot formulate thoughts.

He starts to buck, finally pressing against Jesy’s g-spot a he leans forward to catch his breath. She gasps and her hand stills, making Perrie whine.

“Babe, sorry, babe,” Jesy mutters, eyes falling shut. She shunts backwards against Zayn’s dick and works her hand into Perrie again, three fingers inside her and thumb on her clit.

Harry’s occupied but close, Zayn can tell.

He drops his gaze to Jesy’s lower back, the dimples at the end of her spine winning his attention. He’s close and close and—and he pulls out, whipping the condom off, fisting at himself so he can come over those beautiful, golden dimples.

Jesy laughs, darting a hand back to smack around at Zayn. He ducks away, sated and sleepy.

He stands for a moment, watching the spectacle before him continue to unfold. Then he steps back in, kissing at Jesy’s shoulder and swiping at the small of her back.

“No use, dickhead,” she says, breathless. Her arm is working mightily into Perrie, whose legs have fallen open wantonly. Perrie is silent. “Give me a hand?” She gestures to herself..

“Of course, love.” Zayn moves perpendicular to her, leaning over the side of the bed so he’s facing her twat. He separates her lips and leans in to lave at her clit, not bothering to add fingers into the mix. He’s pretty sure she’s close, is pretty sure she may have come already without telling anyone, but he’s going to make sure she enjoys this immensely.

He flattens his tongue and licks hard, upward, before circling round her clit with concentration motions. He listens to Jesy’s moans mingle with Perrie’s keening, along with Harry’s soft huffs.

It’s a loud room.

Zayn takes a breath, savoring the taste of Jesy’s pussy while he considers his next move. He finally exhales and presses a soft finger into Jesy, working towards the tissue of her g-spot, rubbing against the ribbed edges of her cunt.

She comes, hot and hard, with a scream, clamping her thighs around Zayn.

When he can, he retreats—not just out of Jesy, but away from the bed, moving to the chair to regroup. He catches his breath and watches Harry fuck into Perrie’s mouth, sees that Jesy’s collapsed a bit onto Perrie’s torso in order to center herself. Her hand is still working Perrie over, though, which Zayn admires more than he can possibly admit.

He’s post-orgasm and fucking useless.

Harry’s nipples are so hard Zayn actually worries he might break a blood vessel, and then—he’s coming too, spilling into Perrie’s willing mouth. He milks it for a moment before collapsing onto the bed, kissing Perrie’s forehead and her shoulders and her neck.

Jesy’s still inside Perrie, is the thing, and Zayn and Harry remain unduly concentrated, probably because they’re horrible, but also because—

And then Perrie comes, and she fucking squirts all over Jesy, all over her hand and the bottom of the bedspread, and it seems like it never ends. Zayn almost comes again, untouched and completely flaccid, but—Christ. He wants to lap at Perrie’s open cunt, wants to taste her come right now, has never seen her come this hard.

And then it’s done.

 

For a moment, they all fall away from one another.

Zayn crosses his legs in the chair, watching Perrie flatten herself against the blue bedspread. Her arms flop out, and he smiles a bit. He hopes she’s content, if not happy.

Jesy backs away, leans against Harry’s bookshelf, collecting her breath.

Harry’s half a bed away from Perrie, similarly flopped over, looking like a fish.

Zayn chuckles a bit before inhaling deeply. “Bath, babes. Bath time.”

 

They bathe in shifts, but everyone crowds into the bathroom. Perrie turns the hot water on and sits cross-legged on the closed toilet, naked with her twat open wide. She’s comfortable in a way that Zayn envies, and he has no words for it.

He’s naked too, but he feels shy with it, a bit, wishes maybe he didn’t have so much pubic hair, even though he recently trimmed.

Harry topples happily into the tub and drags a shrieking Jesy with him, arm looping around her waist.

“No room,” Perrie says, pulling her hair into a top-knot as she watches them.

“Other side,” Harry murmurs, mouthing at Jesy’s shoulder, cupping her breast with one hand.

Zayn fills a cup with water and tosses it at Harry, only half-sad it hits Jesy too.

:::

Harry gets out of the tub first so he can clean up the bedroom, letting Zayn slip into the bathwater to replace him. Perrie’s still sat on the closed toilet, having found some pink polish to paint her toes with.

She and Harry share an ease with nudity that Zayn doesn’t have. Sure, he knows what he looks like, but feeling being _comfortable_ with people looking at him—people, plural—is still not entirely a talent of his. He stares at her for a moment, her purple lipstick reapplied somewhere over the course of the evening, before returning his attention to Jesy. She’s lying back in the water, her hair fanning out around her so she looks ethereal. He tucks himself away, giving her space to spread herself out.

Jesy splashes him more than is strictly necessary, and they both make space for Perrie when she asks to join. She keeps her feet carefully in the air, ankles hooked around the rim of the bathtub.

It’s a sumptuous scene, to be sure, Jesy cradling Perrie into her chest, their wet hair tangling together as it floats in the water.

:::

Later, again playing pretty little host, Harry beckons them back to his bedroom, fresh sheets and comforter in place. Perrie settles in first, moving to the far wall, letting Jesy clamber in after her. Jesy waves a hand at Harry, as if knowing he loves feeling small. She allows him to spoon against her naked chest, his long hair fluffing a bit into her face. She simply snuffs and curls an arm around his abdomen.

Lastly Zayn carefully presses himself onto the mattress, unsure if the bed will fit him. It’s a snug but not uncomfortable situation.

Except he can’t fall asleep, just tries to lie still as he listens to the air around him mellow, listens to Perrie huff out gentle breaths. Eventually he just—gets out of bed, pads around the apartment in a pair of boxers. He smokes a few cigarettes as he weighs out some baggies of weed, sticking them into Harry’s work bag. Then he wanders a bit again, grabs a beer from the fridge and lets (lets?) his feet lead him to the guest room.

He’s not going to be invasive this time, he won’t. He just grabs a dog-eared paperback from the floor and sits cross-legged on the bed, wondering if he’s got the attention span to read.

Instead he just sort of—lies there, eyes glazing out as he looks at the wall.

The guest room is where Harry finds him the morning, waking him up with a slap to the face and a plate full of scrambled eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr: littlebint
> 
>  
> 
> Please comment and give me a piece of your mind xx
> 
> I had a shitty day, please be constructive and/or nice:D


	12. But Baby Aren’t You Just The One For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys are men, sometimes, and sometimes boys are babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this silliness, and thank you for not forgetting about me.
> 
> Clearly this is a work of fiction, because the real Zayn is an even more obnoxious shithead than my fake one is. These characters are made up by me, and they are only loosely based on public persona of real people. Nonetheless don’t show it to the real version of anyone involved. And don’t read that Billboard article, but do look at the pretty pictures.

Zayn drags himself up to sitting, giving Harry a bleary squint. 

“Breakfast!”

“For me?” Zayn runs one hand through his hair, which is really due for a cut. It’s always due, and he’s always due for something.

“For all my sleeping beauties.” Harry holds the plate far away from Zayn’s reach. “At the table like civilized grown-ups.”

Everything is blurry and annoying and possibly related to the fact that Zayn has positively zero nicotine in his bloodstream. Mornings can suck dick. “Grown-ups don’t call each other grown-ups, we’ve been over this,” Zayn argues, swinging his legs out of bed, slowly. So slowly.

“Grown-ups who bitch don’t get warm eggs.” Harry’s syrup voice is a bit annoying when Zayn’s not feeling up to beautiful snuff. Such as now.

But he plows on, stubborn and dry-mouthed as he is. “Do they get kisses?”

Harry considers the question for barely a second. “If they tell me I’m pretty and give my ass a little slap, probably.”

Zayn nods slowly. “I’m good for that. For all of that.”

They trail quietly to the kitchen where Perrie and Jesy are drinking orange juice and listening to soft rock—or, really, Jesy’s drinking juice, and Perrie is seated behind her, braiding her hair, the radio’s noise wafting the air.

It’s goddamn fucking domestic.

“This is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,” Zayn says, lunging half-heartedly towards Harry to steal the eggs.

“Ooh, braid me too, please,” Harry crows, handing over the plate to stand in front of Jesy, who cards her fingers readily through his wavy hair. They’re a sight prettier even than the beautiful breakfast placed before Zayn in a princely way, and he can’t decide where to look first.

“H, babe,” Jesy murmurs, “is that apple conditioner I used night yours? Because today, my hair is baby-soft! Must know the secret.” She gestures vaguely to her head and closes both eyes dreamily.

“Apples, yes,” Harry says, immediately throwing his head back to allow Jesy better access to his scalp. “I thought about putting apples on top of the omelettes, but I didn’t know how well it would go with pesto. We can make apple-pear mimosas, though, if—”

“On it,” Zayn offers, setting the plate on the table as he rummages for glasses (mismatched) and juice (green, of course), and champagne (very chilled).

He’s not at all overwhelmed, he just has no idea how to use his brain to make words of more than one syllable. He sets the glasses up on the counter, far away from the sexually domestic display lazily set up in front of him, and he pours juice into them without measuring. The champagne pops easily, and given that he knows how to pop a cork, nothing overflows or spills.

Perrie applauds. “Make J’s strong, yeah? She’s got a tolerance on her.”

“All the booze goes to my tits,” Jesy agrees with an easy shrug.

Zayn blinks, nods, and—ignores them. He moves to the counter to grab a packet of cigarettes with a lighter stashed inside and then he heads to the window, which he shoves open. Lighting the cig, he sticks it in the corner of his mouth and leans out, sitting on the ledge carefully.

Perrie twists a ponytail holder around Jesy’s braid. “What’s this, then? Feeling sorry for ourselves? Or just a shitty bartender?”

“Not a morning person,” he offers up.

“Morning enough person to open up that champers though,” Perrie teases, cupping the back of Jesy’s neck with one curled hand.

“Z can do that in his sleep though,” Harry reasons as Perrie sidesteps them to move to the vacated counter, adding fizzing champagne to fill three glasses. Then she delivers a glass each to Harry and Jesy before taking a sip of her own drink. To Zayn, she just hands over the remainder of the bottle.

“Drink up, me hearty, yo-ho,” she murmurs, ducking down to plant a kiss on his temple. “Cheer up, buttercup.”

“Will do,” Zayn says, trying to move his lips around the cigarette still clamped there. Perrie sighs, plucking the cigarette away from him and taking a long drag. She pets at his hair with one hand, limp and tactless. “Don’t take things from me,” he demands, trying to shunt out of her reach unsuccessfully.

“Your boy’s right here, sweetie,” Perrie whispers, and Zayn thinks that maybe the others don’t hear her, but maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe everything is wishful thinking these days.

He looks up sharply, shoots a glance to Perrie and then to Harry, taking in the glowing image of Jesy just behind him. 

Only after staring at Harry for a solid thirty seconds does Zayn look back at Perrie.

“Your boy’s not going anywhere.”

:::

 

And Harry doesn’t go anywhere, but Perrie and Jesy do leave because they don’t live with Harry but Zayn does, he _does_ live with Harry. And that’s more terrifying than anything.

Harry drops a kiss to Zayn’s jaw, his lips rasping against the stubble there, and says he has to work for a bit. “Call your mom, or your sisters or something, while I’m gone?”

“Go on. Go commit a beautiful felony.” Zayn yanks Harry’s head down by one errant curl and kisses him in return. “Bring me back something pretty.”

“I’ll leave a dimebag under your pillow.” Harry hefts up his workbag, a medium-sized weekender that sort of makes him look like a bike messenger sans bike.

Zayn watches him leave the room and almost calls out an _I love you_ that is ninety percept in poor judgment. And then, rather than doing the emotionally mature and upstanding thing—calling home to let his mother know he’s alive or something similar—he tears through Harry’s apartment like a nosey, suspicious ex. He up-ends all of the cabinets in the bathroom while clutching another bottle of Harry’s fancy whiskey, finds a few loose razor blades with tape over the sharp edges. They make him think of Perrie and her skinny, scarred-up arms, which was the opposite of what he wanted, so he puts them back approximately where he found them.

He goes through Harry’s room—the room he shares with Harry—while chain-smoking, giving the whiskey a break. He finds an impressive collection of vintage erotica, lots of flowery bullshit that makes Zayn snort. He posts a few carefully-framed shots to instagram, curating them with increasingly intense filters.

The kitchen’s mostly just full of citrus fruit, truffle oil, and liquor. Zayn doesn’t know where anything actually goes, so he’s not sure if he puts it back correctly. The closet with Harry’s shrine to his dead family is a minefield Zayn’s not willing to touch at the moment, so he veers towards the living room area, if a low coffee table covered in condom packets, two scales, and empty drinking glasses properly constitutes _living._

 

In Zayn’s mind, actually, it does.

 

It’s the last thing he finds that gives him pause, partly because he stops looking and partly because he just—retreats to the guest room, choosing to sit in the windowsill, running through twenty cigarettes and five fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue.

Of course, this is after he set everything out neatly and tidily, unpacking the surprisingly slim case so every piece of it has a nice spot on the floor.

Zayn smokes so long his lips go numb, but he’s damned if he’ll be anything but present when Harry comes home. He’ll be present this time.

 

He nearly jumps when Harry’s key jams into the lock and the apartment door opens, but he forces himself to stay still. His gaze strays to the medical-grade tourniquet, the multiplicity of burnt spoons, the empty syringes with flattened-down plungers. So he just stays quiet. He closes his eyes, and he waits for Harry to find him.

Harry’s first reaction is simply silence—an opened door and nothing else. Zayn keeps his eyes closed until he hears a heavy sigh. A long-suffering sort of sigh.

“You alive, baby?” Harry murmurs, suddenly touching Zayn’s forearm—his eyes not open, he didn’t see it—and that’s when Zayn launches himself off the window ledge.

“Don’t do it.”

“Do what now.” Deadened tone, nothing given away.

“Die of, like, a fucking overdose, god!”

“What, that bullshit? I haven’t done that for ages. C’mon, hon.” Harry waves one arm around in front of Zayn’s face, brows furrowed a bit as he does it. “No tracks, marks, whatever. My ex was into it, whatever.”

Zayn sighs. “Since-since when do you do heroin?”

“I don’t.”

“You have—”

“You’d know if I did, Christ, you’re always here, aren’t you?” Harry scoffs, inhaling a bit. “I don’t. You know me.”

“Not so sure, really.”

“You know me and I know you, you absolute drama queen,” Harry drawls, rolling his eyes with exaggerated slowness. “And what are you doing anyway, stomping around like you own the whole world? Come on now.”

Zayn sniffs once, poking his toe close to the shit accumulated on the floor. “This—this all looks brand new,” he admits grudgingly.

“I guess. It’s whatever.” Harry dumps his bag down, eyeing Zayn warily like he’s liable to bolt.

“That what your ridiculous _silver spoon_ tattoo is about? Your favorite heroin heater over there?”

Harry’s grin, when it catches, is wide and fast. “No, but I like the thought.”

“Where’d you get all this, anyway?” (Another question, another hypocrisy.)

“The silverware drawer,” Harry says, in an obvious tone—it’s not one he uses often with Zayn, because Zayn isn’t usually an idiot.

“You keep syringes in the kitchen?”

“No, but they keep them at the needle exchange,” Harry responds, just before he begins to sing _I’ve got friends in low places._

Zayn heaves a sigh and sits back down on the windowsill. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He lights up a cigarette, even though he’s smoked so many he’s absolutely lost track for the day.

“The paranoia’s new. Did you stumble into my crack stash or the secret meth lab and just feel the need to go hog-wild from the fumes? Or do I actually need to shove you into your boxing gloves and make you punch people until you puke?”

“I’m fine. I’m great!” Zayn is used to lying, and he always has been. Lying to Harry is new.

“Really? Because I just made a grand for three hours of work, and even I’m not _great.”_ Harry raises one eyebrow.

“Look, I already apologized, okay?”

Harry nods. “I know. Hey, I need you to pose for my next assignment, yeah?”

Zayn snorts. “What, Liam’s busy?”

“Stop being shitty and just agree to help me, please.”

“Sorry, right, sorry. Let me roll a j first and then I’m set.”

He rolls four joints while Harry watches; he rolls an excess, in fact. He tests the limit, but then he lets Harry manhandle him into position on his back on the couch, shirtless and just wearing jeans. His legs are thrown over the arm of the sofa’s end, casual and careless. It’s an awkward position to smoke in because the joint keeps ashing on his cheek, so eventually he just hands it to Harry. Zayn can’t see Harry, can only hear his breathing and the gentle scritch of his pencils against the sketchpad. It should be soothing, but it’s not; instead Zayn just knows he’s being watched by someone he loves and doesn’t trust.

He goes languid with no effort, his eyes flicking open and shut sleepily.

When he wakes up, he’s underneath a frilly throw blanket and his feet are numb.

:::

The next morning, Harry has class, and Zayn actually takes some decent advice: he goes to the gym, if reluctantly.

Niall’s not there, but Liam is, loosely sparring with a gorgeous brunette, her ponytail bouncing as they circle one another. Zayn stays at the perimeter of the the room, but Liam eyes him. Liam eyes him as he gives the brunette a sweat-soaked hug, even as she gently pats his ass before walking away.

Only then does Liam stalk over to him. “Wanna go a round or two?”

“What, spar?” Zayn’s thoughts go gray, his brain liquid.

Liam blinks slowly before nodding, just once.

They both stay essentially quiet except for huffs of breath and Liam’s grunts of exertion. He has at least fifteen pounds of muscle on Zayn, not to mention his height—and he’s not exactly pulling punches, but he’s not throwing his entire self forward.

After their second go-around, Liam gestures sideways with his head, indicating away from the ring and heavy bags. “Cool down,” Liam explains, lining up side-by-side with Zayn. “Shadow-box, yeah? Like this.” He starts to mime at punching, as though the term is really so unusual.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. All right.”

They dart and weave, punching the air, back and forth. Zayn follows Liam’s lead when he treks to the locker room, finally feeling as though the tight-grip knots in his shoulders are finally cooling out. He’s exhausted in only good ways, loose-limbed where he was previously locked away.

It feels nice, even, to be beholden to Liam for something.

It makes Zayn willing to look Liam in the eye, to invite him to the apartment to play video games and have a beer. But he’s surprised that Liam agrees.

They play four rounds and get two beers deep each before they get to talking. “How long have you been boxing?” Zayn asks, because somehow he can’t _not._

“Few years. Used—uh, used to get bullied and eventually got sick of putting up with it, I guess, and my dad mentioned it.” It might be something Liam’s mentioned prior, as Zayn sort of loses track of plenty of things when he doesn’t give a shit. But he supposes right now he maybe should try to give a shit, because Liam seems—soft, genuine. His face is open, he’s not smirking at Zayn, he’s being competitive enough at FIFA that Zayn doesn’t feel suspicious. It’s deceptively normal.

But they’re not normal.

“This is weird.”

“It isn’t,” Liam counters, eyes completely on the screen.

“You’re weird.”

“Am not.” Liam pauses the game and turns to Zayn face-on. “Why the _this?”_

“No _this.”_

“Hm.” Liam shrugs, then stands up. “I need to piss, and then I have an idea.”

Zayn waits semi-patiently for his return, finishing his beer and turning off the game. Liam returns to the room with a bottle of rum and a self-satisfied smirk. “Never Have I Ever.”

Zayn outright laughs, tipping his head back so hard he nearly hurts himself. “Yeah, all right. Okay. Let’s do it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Liam plops down on the couch and situates himself perhaps a little too close to where Zayn is, offering over the bottle. “You start.”

“Never have I ever fucked Harry.” He doffs the bottle in a _cheers_ fashion and takes a long pull. Then he waits, but Liam doesn’t ask for the bottle. Instead he just watches Zayn, a soft smile on his lips. “Truthfully?” 

“You’ve gotta be honest during Never Have I Ever or everything just turns to chaos. Obviously.”

Zayn nods slowly. “Your turn, then.” He hands over the bottle.

“Never have I ever tried to—suck my own dick!”

Zayn splutters. “People _do_ that?” he asks, flushing despite himself, very much despite himself.

“Well I guess that Harry has definitely tried, but he’s a weird tantric monkey, so who knows, really.”

“True,” Zayn says slowly, considering. "But I haven’t, so.”

“Sure.” Liam raises just one brow, waiting and daring.

“Never have I ever sucked dick for cash.” It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s a shot for the jugular, or a solid uppercut. 

It’s cruel, actually.

However. Liam pauses. “Does porn count?”

“Sure.”

Liam takes a long pull and shoots Zayn a satisfied smile. “Just some amateur stuff.”

“Amateur _means_ you don’t get paid. No cash. So. You mean professional, just—unpolished?”

Liam inhales. “Fine, then, fine. School me on the finer points, why don’t you.”

“I just happen to know a thing or two! That’s all.”

“Yeah, you know a thing or two about a thing or two. I see.”

“King of the world, that’s me.” Zayn tucks his legs underneath himself on the sofa, locking himself away.

“You’re obnoxious.”

“I know. I’ve been practicing.”

“Well.” Liam pauses, taking in a fortifying breath. He meets Zayn’s eyeline. “Never have I ever given myself a rousing pep-talk in the bathroom mirror just to keep myself from crying.”

And so, a pause.

“That’s—pretty pointed, bro.”

Liam tips the rum in Zayn’s direction, neck opened up, and his face blooms into a slow smile. “But, is it true though?”

Zayn is saved answering by Harry’s key once again sliding into the lock of the front door—and the rum bottle is still tipped in Zayn’s direction, but he ignores it in favor of tipping his head backward onto the couch to welcome Harry’s entrance.

It’s underwhelming in many ways, but also—a relief

Zayn isn’t used to it: relief or Liam getting too much the better of him, or the look of affection Harry bestows on him for some reason, some goddamn reason.

“Never Have We Ever!” Liam crows, holding the bottle aloft for Harry to accept.

Harry accepts it readily, necking a bit before surfacing himself, sucking in a deep breath. “Never have I ever loved this boy more than I do right now,” he murmurs, ducking in to kiss Zayn’s lips once, then twice, before cupping Zayn’s cheek softly. 

Only after a bit too long does he back away, as both he and Zayn open their eyes, jaws slack.

 

“Right now?” Liam asks, tone sardonic. He leans in to collect the rum. “Doubtful.” He ruffles Harry’s hair before Zayn’s, and then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the CHAOS OF Never Have I Ever ("I Have Never") is a reference to Fresh Meat in the first season.
> 
> my tumblr: musiclily
> 
> I adore comments and chatter. Seek me out.  
> <3


	13. Thinking It's Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you so afraid of, then? Hmm?”
> 
> Zayn sniffs once. “You,” he says simply. “Mostly you.”
> 
> “Mostly me, eh? The cat-loving, clean-living orphan?”
> 
> “You’re not an orphan,” Zayn ventures slowly.

Ch. 13: Thinking It’s Simple

Zayn almost doesn’t notice Liam leave but really he does because because he always notices shit like that, especially about Liam. Except right now he’s stuck on the _love you_ thing, and whether or not Harry is just fucking with him.

“You’re home. How was class?” Zayn asks, trying not to let his voice quaver with excitement. It half-works, probably.

“Good. The gym?”

“Yeah, good.” He watches Harry walk around the couch to set the rum bottle on the coffee table.

“Shower time?” Harry requests, holding out an open hand to grasp onto Zayn’s. They trail slowly to the bathroom, Zayn with his chin tucked down so it touches his chest, shame-faced puppy with a whine at the back of his throat.

They undress each other with nimble fingers, and Zayn carefully tucks Harry’s hair behind his ears. He gives a small smile. “You have such tiny ears,” he murmurs, stepping closer into Harry’s space to kiss the shell of the left one.

Harry squawks. “I do not! Do I?”

“They’re cute. You can’t always see them, with all this hair and whatnot.”

“You like my hair.” Harry narrows his eyes slightly, barely challenging Zayn given the small smile playing at his lips.

“I do indeed.”

Now Harry ducks his head down, face gaining just a bit of color. “How sweet. Come on, I’m cold. Let’s get in.” They step under the hot spray, although it can’t adequately cover both of them at once. “How long have you had your hair cut like this?” he asks, taking Zayn’s hair out of its small ponytail, running his hand over the stubble of the undercut at the nape of his neck.

“Few months. I initially did it with my sister’s manicure scissors and my shitty three-blade razor. She got so mad that she went out and bough me a set of clippers.” Zayn snorts at the memory, knowing his angry face usually mirrors Saf’s, given that they look so much alike.

“How often do you need to maintain it?” Harry asks, squeezing out a bit of his preferred apple shampoo onto Zayn’s hair.

Zayn shrugs. “Every couple weeks. Whenever I feel like it until I get sick of it.”

“What’ll you do then?”

“Shave it.”

Harry laughs.

“What?”

“I just—I only ever hear of people shaving their heads if they’re already balding or, like, they just went through a breakup and they really want to do something drastic. Liam went all Brillo pad a little while back, moaning about how Dani really liked his hair and he’d _totally show her.”_

“How’d that work out for him?” Zayn tips his head back to allow Harry greater access to his hair.

“Pretty in line with that adage, what is it? Drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die?”

“Oh. Yeah. That—makes sense.”

“It’s all for the best though. He’s in a much better place now.”

Zayn blinks. “Him right now is him in a better place?”

Harry pauses, maneuvering Zayn so that his scalp is beneath the water. “Not sure either of us is one to judge on that front, babe.”

He lets the water run over his hair and then his faced, shutting his eyes tight. “I guess that’s true,” he responds, as water runs over his lips.

 

That night, Zayn wakes up to Harry screaming and thrashing, his body knocking hard into Zayn’s, their bones colliding. Zayn throws himself on top of Harry, wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, his legs around Harry’s thighs. He circles tightly, bearing down and moving his face towards Harry’s ear. “Hey, hey now, wake up, love, come on, come on now. Wake up. Wake up! Hey, babe, now, wake up up!”

It takes way too long to wake Harry up, and Zayn’s lost count of the length of time because eventually Harry is lucid, teary-eyed and peering up at Zayn. The relief they both feel when Harry finally wakes up is—overwhelming in its totality. He’s breathing hard and his chin is quivering, but he sags a bit into Zayn’s grasp.

“Hi, love, hey, you’re okay, yeah? You’re doing just fine.”

“Why not, though, why them, why me without them? It was a near miss, it was a near miss! Fucking hell, it was just this close—” Harry cries, bucking up against Zayn, head tipping back.

“I know, babe, I know, but you’re okay, it’s going to be okay, yeah? Shh, shh.” Zayn tries to plant himself hard against Harry, their hips flush, his arms clenched across Harry’s back. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“But them, they’re not, it’s too much! And I can’t help it, I can’t help it all,” Harry babbles, eyes falling shut.

“That’s right, love, but you’re okay, yeah, you’re safe.” Zayn collapses on top of Harry hard, trying to mold some serenity into his furor. “Come back to me, come on.”

Eventually Harry goes slack and they fall into one another. It takes a few minutes for them to catch their breath, a few minutes more for Zayn to speak again.

 

“Maybe you should—see someone?”

“I _am_ seeing someone. You.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Like a doctor?”

“I meant, like, a counselor or something.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no. I’ve done it, it doesn’t work.”

“Sometimes it takes a few—”

“I said _no._ No grief therapists, no psychologists, no counselors. No.”

“Fine, Jesus, fine, it was just a thought.”

“It’s not happening.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.” Harry sighs, dislodging Zayn so that he topples to the side. “Shit, Z, you know what? Fucking A. I have my yearly physical coming up in a couple days. If it’ll appease you, I’ll, like, mention this stuff and see what he says.”

“Is that before or after your Breakfast Club audition?”

"After." 

“You’re getting pretty good,” Zayn appeases. “Wait, yearly physical? What the fuck, you really do that?”

“Yeah, obviously. STD tests don’t take themselves.”

“This is not the sort of conversation I usually have in the middle of the night,” Zayn muses.

“Yeah? What do you usually talk about at night, then.”

“Big things. Fears, hopes. Betrayal. Existentialism, the entropy of the universe. Our inevitable demise in some global heat-death crisis. I dunno.”

“What are you so afraid of, then? Hmm?”

Zayn sniffs once. “You,” he says simply. “Mostly you.”

“Mostly me, eh? The cat-loving, clean-living orphan?”

“You’re not an orphan,” Zayn ventures slowly.

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry growls, yanking at the blankets blindly, pulling away a decorative throw. Then he stands, stalking out of the room. Zayn has no idea where he goes, because he doesn’t follow.

Only the following morning does he find Harry tucked up onto the couch, curled around his own legs.

Later, while Zayn is listlessly shoving fruit into Harry’s juicer, Harry admits he didn’t want to stay in the guest room because it’s where he’s shoved all his sad photos. 

Zayn chokes on air and nearly sends his finger into the juicer.

:::

Sometimes Zayn likes to stare at Harry in the worst way possible, in the way that he knows he’ll be ashamed of when caught. He’ll fold himself up, letting his eyes go hooded and his jaw go slack, wrapping his arms around his middle. And then his brain just fizzes out, everything turning both gray and golden. He likes to watch Harry talk without listening, likes to watch him move without working in tandem. He has such a shine to him that Zayn maybe thinks he’s a god.

And leave it to Zayn to make a god fall apart—or at least to want to.

It’s not hubris so much as thinking so highly of beautiful Harry that he’ll do anything to make him feel whole even for just one perfect moment or so.

Those moments are fleeting, yes, but the sticky, white-hot images linger on for Zayn. He thinks they always will. He likes to flick back to the pictures he has of Harry on his knees—most are mental, but he has printed a few off at the local copyshop, just for his own journal-cum-sketchbook.

Gods can indeed break apart sometimes.

:::

Later that week Harry storms into the apartment and tosses a beat-up paperback directly at Zayn’s face. He has a shit arm, though, so it lands on its spine by the coffee table and not at all near Zayn, who is currently spray-painting a piece of butcher-paper he hung up on one wall.

“Hello to you, sunshine.”

“She—the doctor gave me this entire fucking, like, it was just this questionnaire about how fucked up I am, I’m so mad at you right now I could punch your goddamn face.”

Zayn drops the paint can and darts to Harry, steering him towards the punching bag in the corner. “You’d break your hand on me, babe. Let me wrap your knuckles up and give you my gloves, yeah? And you can use the bag.” He flicks one finger to it, hitting the plasticized material with his nail.

Harry collapses where he stands, holding his arms up. Zayn scrambles to find his boxing shit, then scrambles to coat Harry up in protective materials. 

The last thing he wants is for Harry to hurt.

Harry wails on the bag for a solid five minutes, chest heaving hard and his hair flying about his face. He has surprising stamina for someone with absolutely no training and no boxing form. Apparently his exercise routine is a bit superior to Zayn’s, because Zayn is always slightly out of breath. He should probably cut back on the cigarettes, come to think of it, but that’s a bridge to cross another day. Zayn’s not really into the self-improvement racket.

Eventually he crowds against Harry’s back, getting elbowed in the stomach for his efforts. He gets Harry to still a bit and turn in his grasp. “You’re okay, you’re fine.”

“Get off me.” Harry shoves him away a bit, planting his gloved hands on Zayn’s shoulders to move away from him. “She prescribed me something called a—serotonin norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor. Venla—venla something,” he says, moving to try to un-velcro the glove from his left hand. “I can’t show you the fucking scrip because I’m trapped in these goddamn gloves you handed me! You jerk!”

Zayn tries not-very hard to hold in his snort. “That’s a long list of words, love,” he murmurs, circling his arms around Harry to try to hug him.

“Apparently I have a long list of problems.” Harry sags into the embrace, bumping Zayn’s ass with the boxing gloves. “I hate you.”

Zayn sighs. _gods can fall apart sometimes._ “Okay, hold still. Be back, one sec, I swear.” He darts across the room and swipes his hand across the coffee table, collecting a one-hitter, lighter, and grinder currently full of ground Orange Haze.

He fills the hitter basically one-handed, sticking the tip in Harry’s mouth as he holds the lighter aloft to indicate he’ll do all the work. Harry holds the metal between his lips and lets Zayn light the tiny bit of weed trapped at the end.

“Okay, breathe in. There’s a boy. Nicely done. Mhm. Yup.” Zayn feels like a valet or something maybe, some kind of weird nursemaid or butler, holding pot to Harry’s lips. He watches Harry inhale through his nose while he holds the smoke in his mouth, the surefire way to let it cool a bit so his throat doesn’t burn up.

Harry detaches, knocking his head back so he can exhale. Then the tirade continues, although his voice is a bit gruffer. “I’m not filling this thing, it’s all fucking bullshit. You know? No, no you don’t, you know, because you’re not a therapy kid. And when you hear me say that, you’re not hearing it right, because it’s capitalized, okay? Therapy Kid. I did the therapy thing, and you don’t get it, and you don’t get me, and I’m fucking terrified right now, okay? And also I still want to hit you.”

“Yeah, okay. Um.” He dips the one-hitter back into the grinder, picking up loose weed before placing the piece back into Harry’s mouth.

If he refuses to medicate, he may as well self-medicate.

Harry blows smoke straight into Zayn’s face. “You’re patronizing me.” He rips at the velcro of his gloves with his front teeth and then he yanks them both off. “Give it here.” He holds out one bare, sweaty hand.

Zayn gives over the hitter and lighter. “Shotgun me?”

Harry rolls his eyes but steps one bit closer. He sucks in a single deep breath and lets his lips ghost against Zayn’s. He gently exhales, and soft smoke seeps against Zayn’s mouth, roiling over his tongue and floating into his nose.

Harry blows a raspberry against Zayn’s cheek after putting down the piece down. “As much as you fucking hate me, guess what?” he asks, with a slight laugh high in the back of his throat.

“What?”

“That’s how much I love you.”

Zayn exhales sharply. “Fuck. Fuck, stop it. Babe, just—hey, take a shower, okay? You’re sweaty.” He jogs away to start the shower before moving to the bedroom to shove his wallet into his pocket. He then returns to where Harry is and nods carefully over his shoulder. “Should be warm now. You’ve got nice heating, nice water pressure.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“You don’t be an idiot, then. Go take a shower!” He laughs, stepping carefully away from Harry. “Seriously.”

“Join me?”

Zayn forces a laugh. “I’m a prune with all the baths and showers and hot-tub dips I’ve taken lately, dude. Give a guy a break.”

Harry frowns and picks up the one-hitter. He holds his hand out so Zayn can give him the baggie and lighter. “Yeah. Fine.” Then he stalks away to the bathroom without another glance.

Zayn immediately goes to the bent-up book Harry threw at him, ducking down to collect it up. The bookmark is indeed his new prescription, which Zayn yanks out. He leaves without a word to the nearest Duane Reade, stopping at the pharmacy before collecting chapstick, a birthday card for his cousin, and three candy bars.

Somehow he’s back before Harry’s left the shower, probably because Harry is a heathen with Tarzan hair who loves his fruity hair concoctions and his emoliants and his gritty scrubs.

Zayn sets the pill bottle on Harry’s side-table and then he gets naked, draping himself across the bedspread. As ever, he knows what he looks like, and, as sometimes, he knows what he’s doing.

He flicks through his phone for a bit but sets it down when he hears the shower shut off. He palms at himself gently, working himself over just a bit, breath catching in anticipation.

Harry is on him as soon as he enters the room, as he didn’t even bother to bring his towel in. He’s just as naked as Zayn is, and his teeth go straight for Zayn’s shoulder, their knees knocking together while Harry’s wet hair falls into Zayn’s eyes.

“Fuck you,” Harry growls. “I’m furious right now.”

“Come here, baby,” Zayn purrs, reading the tension in Harry’s body.

“Don’t call me that.” Harry latches on to Zayn’s neck again, biting in hard with his teeth. He writhes against Zayn, their hips hitting one another hard. Eventually, blissfully, their cocks line up and Harry sees fit to gather them together in his giant fist.

He works them over roughly, thumbing against the head of Zayn’s dick periodically, timing it with his bites. Zayn dicks upwards, letting himself groan at the contact and the heady feeling that starts to run through his gut.

“I’m already—” he starts, but Harry cuts him off with a harsh kiss to the lips.

Then he surfaces. “I know.” He plants his lips against Zayn’s temple, breathing raggedly as his hand picks up. “Come on, now.”

They come within moments of each other, Zayn with teeth at his neck and Harry with a gasp.

:::

An hour later, after a short nap, Zayn finds the full pill bottle floating in the toilet, and Harry is nowhere to be seen.

 

He doesn’t return to the apartment for three full days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Comment here about Pillow Talk because I have Important Critical Thoughts that Need Reviewing.
> 
> Also Orange Haze is an indica ~blend pretty good for like relaxing and being chill as shit. This girl does her research hands-on. Don’t do drugs.
> 
> main tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr: littlebint


	14. Safety first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> safety first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS BITCH IS BACK BABES I've been writing this chapter for months and I hate that it's not as long as I'd like it to be BUT there's some real shit here, who's ready, not me

Zayn fishes the pill bottle out of the toilet and washes it in the sink, fairly sure that the label is ruined. He grabs a wad of toilet paper and wraps it around the bottle, hoping the lid itself is watertight. His heartbeat is kicking in his chest, so loudly that he can hear it in his ears. He moves back towards the couch, packing himself a bowl in Harry’s favorite piece. He needs to calm the fuck down immediately or he’ll go off the rails, shake apart until he’s nothing but atoms floating in the air.

Two full bowls of Orange Haze later and he no longer feels like his entire body is throbbing, but he also has tunnel vision. He wonders if he should go search for Harry, knowing immediately that he’ll never find him. New York is anonymous in good and bad ways, and a determined Harry is one who cannot be found if he wishes to remain hidden.

Zayn keeps the ringer of his phone on high, just in case, and he straps himself into his boxing gloves to work out the rest of his feelings.

***

It takes three days for Harry to come back, and Zayn fills the days listlessly. He has one fight, which he wins handily, and he goes out for drinks with Niall. He ignores two texts and a phone call from Liam—how Liam got his number, Zayn will never know—and he spends a lot of time at the gym.

That’s where Liam eventually tracks him down, cornering him by his locker as he strips out of his shirt. His hair is sweaty and falling in his eyes, and he still hasn’t caught his breath. Liam rounds the aisle of lockers and wraps a large hand over Zayn’s shoulder, warmth radiating from his palm so that it seeps into Zayn’s skin.

“Where is he,” Zayn snaps, trying to shrug out of Liam’s clutches.

“Dunno. Won’t tell me no matter how many times I ask.” Liam sighs, dropping down onto the bench behind Zayn. Zayn grabs his shirt and swipes it against his forehead, trying to soak up his sweat and frustration. It’s barely effective.

“You and me both, then.”

“You’ve tried calling?”

Zayn wheels on Liam, face flushing. “Of course I’ve tried calling, don’t be a dick. I’m—he’s—”

Liam raises a brow. “You love him. I know.”

“I—we live together. He’s—” Zayn’s at a loss.

“He’s your boyfriend?” Liam ventures, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

“Well. Uh. Yeah.” Zayn’s not sure if Liam’s baiting him or just arguably stupid.

“And an enigma.”

“Not sure someone who loves fancy candles as much as he does can realistically be called an enigma.”

“What do you call it when someone—a known drug dealer—doesn’t even let his boyfriend know where he is sometime within seventy-two hours?” Liam immediately makes a face, as though he regrets the caustic, needlessly cruel question.

Zayn shrugs. Some fights aren’t worth expending energy on. “Emotional abuse.”

“Fuck.” Liam whistles through his teeth once. “Come on, bro. Let’s go get drunk.”

***

Zayn knows that getting drunk with Liam under any set of circumstances is a terrible decision, but he’s no stranger to terrible decisions. He’s also feeling a little bit vindictive and petty, wants to kick out a little so that Harry feels his annoyance and frustration through force of will and the benevolent energy of the universe.

Except Zayn knows the universe isn’t benevolent, not at all. He once thought maybe it could be kind, at times but he’s begun to think that it’s all just bullshit. 

He knows the universe isn’t benevolent for many reasons, not the least of which is the heavy weight of Liam’s open hand where it rests on his hip as they weave through the crowd at their third shitty bar of the night. Zayn nearly gets smacked in the face by a girl’s errant hand, rings bright even in the low light. She snarls at him as though her intrusion into his personal space is his fault, although given that Liam’s the one guiding them forward, perhaps it is.

Perhaps it’s all his fault, says the insidious voice always loitering at the back of his head, the one that hisses and spits at him during any quiet moment.

This moment won’t be quiet for long, not now that he and Liam are both rolling and eight drinks deep. He has an open pit sitting directly in the center of his chest, he thinks, and the thought sends a shiver down his spine. He wonders if people can turn into vacuums, can turn themselves inside-out via a black hole just over their hearts.

Terror clenches around his neck.

He lets Liam guide him towards the bar, lets Liam order them each a beer, watching people watch them. He feels envious eyes on every bit of his skin, feels himself prickle with the attention. It rankles.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to be seen with Liam, it’s that he doesn’t want to be seen as _being with_ Liam. But a big part of him is still so incredibly upset at Harry, is so incredibly horrified about the idea that something may have happened to him, that all he can do is follow along where he’s led. All he can do is list pointlessly behind someone else’s body, is exist in Liam’s wake. He doesn’t even think he can speak.

The fire in his throat eats up his words, anyhow, even if he once wanted to string two together.

He accepts the beer from Liam readily enough, feeling pliant in a way he doesn’t quite like. His vision has sparks all around it, and the looseness of his limbs mixes with the pounding music such that he stumbles. He runs into Liam’s toned back, but his elastic limbs just melt until they’re pressed together, just slightly.

Zayn betrays himself, betrays every memory of Harry and every instinct running through his body right down to the marrow of his bones: He leans in. He presses his cheek into Liam’s shoulder blade, his shirt warm beneath Zayn’s equally-warm skin.

Zayn coughs, reeling away, trying to pretend he tripped and bumped into Liam by accident. Liam looks over his shoulder and snakes out a hand to catch Zayn by the wrist. “You aw’right?” he slurs, eyes squinting a bit in the haze of the bar.

Zayn shrugs. “Whatever. Yeah. Fine.” His thoughts fuse together into a large, hot ball. He can’t think.

Liam tightens his hand around Zayn’s wrist, tugging him slightly. “Come on, let’s see how soundly I can beat you at pool.” He gently continues to lead Zayn through the crowd.

“Better’n darts, probably,” Zayn reasons, twisting his arm around so he can hold Liam’s hand.

They slowly make their way to the pool table—for a dive bar, their third shitty stop of the night is pretty packed—where Zayn plants his feet and makes a decision.

He yanks his hand away from Liam’s and rounds on him. He shoots Liam a crooked grin, trying his best to turn it wolfish and predatory. He grabs a pool cue and demands to go first. He gathers up the balls, moving the rack back and forth across the felt to let them settle in. He leans far across the wood of the table, letting his hips go angular.

He knows what he looks like.

He shunts his hips against the side of pool table, harder than he normally would, harder than he really should. He hurts to his very bones.

The game doesn’t progress far—Zayn gets stripes within one turn, and he watches the pretty way that Liam’s cheeks pink up, hates himself for it—before Zayn chugs his beer and nods away, down the side hall towards the bathrooms.

Liam’s brows raise, both of them arching in a comic way, but he follows Zayn into the dark hall. Zayn thinks that says more about Liam than it does about him, but he’s rolling so hard that he’s not entirely sure.

Zayn doesn’t lead them into the bathroom but snakes a hand back to grip at Liam’s wrist before opening the door that will take them to the roof.

“You’re an idiot,” Liam says on an exhale, finishing the rest of his drink.

“This much has been proven,” Zayn agrees, dropping Liam’s wrist. He sprints up the steps and bursts through the roof door, slightly breathless.

“Definitely an idiot,” Liam calls from behind him, not at all breathless upon reaching the top of the stairs.

Zayn leans over the retaining wall—or whatever shitty thing keeps people from jumping to their death from the fourth floor of a bar, realistically—and he throws his bottle roughly toward the ground. “Another?” he demands, throwing his hand back so that Liam will, hopefully, give him the empty bottle in his hand.

Instead Liam rounds on him and chucks the bottle at the ground beneath this. He chuckles low in his throat and knocks his shoulder against Zayn’s. “You’re an idiot too,” Zayn notes, staring at the shattered glass.

“How much of an idiot, do you think?” Liam asks, moving his temple to press against Zayn’s.

***

They wake up in Harry’s living room, both tucked very uncomfortably together on the couch. Liam’s shirt is rucked up above his nipples and Zayn is folded up on top of him, fully-clothed. Liam mutters something nonsensical and shuffles to the side. Zayn wants to get water but he wants to fall back asleep more.

 

They wake up again with Harry standing over them, dark circles under his eyes and an angry set to his jaw.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” Zayn grinds out, flipping his way off the couch, not really dislodging Liam much.

Harry drops his duffle by the coffee table and leaves the room wordlessly.

Zayn scrambles on his socked feet and follows Harry into the bathroom, where he’s already started the shower and stripped down entirely naked.

“Are you mad at me?” Zayn asks, moving his hands down to the hem of his shirt so he can shuck it off.

“I dunno.” Harry moves into the shower, stepping beneath the spray so that his hair and face get wet.

“I’m mad at you,” Zayn announces over the water, taking off the rest of his clothes.

“Good for you.”

“Yeah. Good for me.” Zayn gets into the shower and flicks Harry’s cheek once before kissing it. “I missed you. Don’t do that to me.”

“Well don’t do _that_ to me,” Harry demands, waving one hand dismissively before knocking his head back beneath the shower nozzle again.

“Try to help you be your best self?”

Harry’s face goes hard and he places one hand against Zayn’s solar-plexus. “Babe. You know nothing about me.”

He clambers out of the shower quickly, wrapping a towel around himself. By the time Zayn manages to turn off the water and grab a towel too, Harry’s left the apartment.

Liam laughs when he enters the living room. “Oh, god, bro. What the fuck did you manage to do?”

***

Zayn’s not sure what the fuck he managed to do, either time. The lack of knowledge sits heavy, directly in the center of his chest. He has no clue how to reconcile it with his anger, his mistrust, the vibrant feeling rattling through his veins.

He goes back to this gym and tries to work it out, and he’s marginally successful. He probably is, but also, he’s not.

 

Harry returns a day later, face looking thunderous and slightly gray.

Zayn crows from his spot on the living room sofa, launching himself off of it in a haphazard manner such that he nearly falls down. He feels and probably looks foolish, but he barrels into Harry regardless, tucking his arms around Harry’s slim waist.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he mutters, half-whining, feeling like he’s a mewling puppydog about to be kicked. He hates himself, but not as much as he hates that fact that Harry left at all.

“Because you keep doing things to me,” Harry responds, grabbing Zayn’s ass a bit too hard. “Because you’re not fair to me.”

“I just—”

“You just need to let me be my own person, because you’re no better at running your life than I am at mine.” His tone is bitter, but just a little, and Zayn has no justifiable leg to stand on in this fight.

And yet. “Fuck you.” He sighs, rubbing the heel of one hand into his eye.

“Physician heal thyself?” Harry says with a snort, moving further into the apartment.

“You know the best advice comes from people with real-world experience. Addicts make the best sponsors and some shit.”

“Former addicts,” Harry corrects, shucking off his jacket

“Are you ever a _former_ addict, though?”

“Fuck if I know, Z. Can we put a moratorium on the philosophy of addiction and its timeframes until I _don’t_ have a blinding headache?” He moves into the kitchen and Zayn follows him, taking in the defeated posture of Harry’s back, the slump of his shoulders. Something about him looks gray, and it nearly makes Zayn’s throat close up.

“I’ll make you coffee or something. Grab ibuprofen?”

Harry shuffles around in the junk drawer while Zayn sets the coffee to brew. Zayn continues to scan up and down Harry’s body, thinking he’s lost some weight, and then Zayn’s entire being goes cold with white-bright panic.

His left arm has three distinct pin-prick bruises right near the crease, and he’s favoring it in a way that says it hurts. Zayn wants to claw off his own face and Harry’s face and the floor of the entire apartment.

“What the fuck?” His voice is loud even in his own ears, even with the ringing from inside his head, and he stalks towards Harry without realizing he’s doing so. He grabs at Harry’s forearm with two fingers, aiming for gentle but coming off way too hard. “What the fuck is this shit?”

“My pale-ass arm?” Harry snaps, yanking it away from Zayn as his other arm continues to rifle through the drawer.

“Your—your fucking track-marks, more like,” Zayn snaps back, grabbing at Harry’s arm again. He presses in to the pin-pricks, probably not too gently, covering the bruises with his thumbprint.

Harry rips his arm away, eyes wild and wide. He backs away, his jaw working hard. He looks like he wants to run away again, so Zayn tries to look placating, tries to put up his hands so they seem non-threatening. Harry barrels past him, shoving hard at his shoulder—uncomfortably hard, actually, and Zayn thinks he’s going to bruise in an inconvenient way rather than a fun way.

This whole thing feels fucking inconvenient and not at all fun.

“Get back here, please,” Zayn pleads, and he knows his voice is cracking, he knows he’s cracking too, but he needs to say this. “Please.”

Harry laughs, and it’s a maniacal sound, loud and bright as hell. His back is to Zayn as he paces towards the door, and Zayn’s afraid he’s going to leave, but—all he does is kick the door with his pointy-toed boot.

And then he laughs again.

“I’m not going to do anything you ask of me,” he says, nearly growling. “Not until you understand that you don’t fucking own me.”

“I—” Zayn falters, standing a few feet behind Harry. “I do know that.” He sighs. “Probably part of the problem.”

Harry turns. “You want to own me?”

Zayn shrugs. “Want a way in to your world that feels authentic, I suppose.”

“I’m still pissed at you. I am.” He bites at his bottom lip, but gently. “I stayed with Nick and Lou, they eventually talked me around into talking to you. So, lo and behold of it, I was on my way home when I got a notice in my phone-cal, yeah? For my annual blood-draw to make sure I’m clean.” Harry digs into the pocket of his skin-tight jeans, and rather than pulling out a piece of paper he just tosses his entire wallet at Zayn. “Dig around in there the same way they had to dig into my arm to find a vein that didn’t roll, hm? I’ll find out in two days if I’m STD-free, by the way, and I’d appreciate if you return the courtesy.”

Without another word—without even picking up his wallet—he stalks directly out of the apartment again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love my lil drama queens
> 
> tumblr: musiclily
> 
> comment and critique, and thank you for reading as ALWAYS!

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna get weird, guys.
> 
> tumblr: musiclily
> 
> Oh and I made a stupid mix for this thingy: http://8tracks.com/musiclily88/ending-the-world


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